---

Sharon’s Note: April doesn’t have a freak out over the truth here because I’ve always hated that trope. This kind of secret is world changing, but I hate freak out denial scenes. Besides, you guys have decided that April is a bad-ass. She can handle this. Warning: Time to make plans.

---

Mr. Franks folds his hands like a bond villain. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that things are different here in Sable Fields?”

“If by different you mean weird, yeah, so what the hell is going on?” I cross my arms and glare.

“Knowing too much about the situation could be very dangerous. Just understand that a lot of our town residents, including our students, are very dangerous. It would be prudent to keep your head down and avoid their notice.”

“It’s a little late for that.” I snort. “I’ve already earned one enemy, so maybe you could lay off the cryptic warnings. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Mr. Franks drums his fingers on his desk while frowning at me. Just when the silence gets uncomfortable he says, “I can smooth things over with Miss Roberts.”

“The princess had her feelings hurt and I humiliated her in front of the school. Do you really think she’s going to let this go? Tell me what’s going on.”

He nods. “If I tell you this, you cannot spread it any further. Don’t speak to the other students about it, you cannot tell your parents. Understood?”

I roll my eyes. “I understand.”

“This is a safe place for . . . special people. People who aren’t necessarily human.”

“You know, for an educator you use an awful lot of qualifiers.” I lean my elbows on the desk and prop my head on my hand.

His nostrils flare and his face reddens. “The town is full of supernatural people. Miss Roberts is a werewolf whose parents are very highly placed in the pack, and if she chose to, could break your neck with one hand.”

I sat up and consider for a second. “Well, that would explain some things. Why the hell would you allow normal humans here if they shouldn’t know what’s going on?”

He shifts and clears his throat. “It’s not my preference, but the town council has rules that humans who have necessary skills are to be brought in on a provisional basis to see if they fit in before they are let in on the secret.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” I sigh. “And a sysadmin and a CNA are essential enough for a world changing secret?”

Mr. Franks mumbles, “It’s gotten better with more degrees available online, but we still have a relatively low rate of students and residents going to college.” 

“So, what now?” I ask. There’s a lot to consider, and a lot to plan. I am not currently equipt to deal with werewolves.

“I’d recommend going home to change, but if you want to go back to class I’ll write you a pass.”

I tell him

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---

James’s Note: When faced with another chance to be a hero, you couldn’t help but take it. You also decided to give a warning shot… to the face. Let’s see if this worked out better for you than last time.

---

You look at the group of men threatening the girl. Your dad always told you some people are hardwired to protect others. They just can’t help it. You guess maybe he was talking about you.

You line up your rifle, trying to get a good shot. There aren’t a lot of rounds, so you can’t afford to waste any. 

You’re just about to put a round into Mr. Shotgun, when he moves to the right, accidentally putting a defunct pickup truck between you and him.

You swear under your breath and hesitate for a heartbeat before picking a new target. In that heartbeat, one of the men strides forward and grabs the girl by the arm.

She moves so fast you almost miss it. You can barely make out the short curved blade in her hand.

Like a striking snake, she cuts him three times. Once up the inside of his forearm, once across the belly, and once across his throat as he crumples to the pavement. The arterial spray coats the girl in a fine red mist.

Mr. Shotgun comes back into your sight picture, apparently intending to brain the girl with his gun butt. Instead, he catches your first round in his shoulder.

You take a deep breath and a quick follow-up shot. Your second round takes him in the eye.

The last man, seemingly in shock, has been standing mouth agape for the last few seconds. Before he can recover, the girl is on him like an angry raptor.

Not wanting to risk shooting into close combat, you sprint forward to help. You cover the distance as fast as you can. By the time you get there, he’s managed to get on top of her, but you think there’s more blood on the outside than the inside at this point.

You kick him in the back hard, sending him sprawling. He doesn’t move from where he lands, and the crimson puddle underneath him starts expanding faster.

The girl gets up, straightening her bloody t-shirt, and flashes you a sunny smile, as though she weren’t painted in gallons of gore.

“Hey, thanks for that. I was trying to get into the store where I’ve got a weapons stash, but they cut me off.

She absentmindedly brushes the hair out of her face with the hand still holding her knife. 

Her head cocks to the side quizzically.

“Wait, you look kinda familiar…”

Recognition hits you like a semi truck.

“Sarah?” You can’t believe it. No way is this Sam’s daughter.

Sarah squeals with delight and pounces on you, hugging you with surprising strength. Also covering you in blood.

“God, am I glad to see you. I’ve been staying at Dad’s old fishing shack, but the supplies are getting kind of thin. I ran into these losers while I was out foraging.”

What do you do next?

 

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---

Sharon’s Note: There’s a corruption of an old proverb I heard when I was a child that made a huge impact on my life. A lady accepts what she cannot change and changes what she cannot accept. My characters almost always have this same philosophy. Warning: Character refusing to accept no for an answer.

---

“Damn it!”  I shrieked. They could have at least left the coms on so I could hear what was happening. 

Another hunter I didn’t rememember the name of hobbled in wearing one of those boots for a broken leg, gun drawn. “What?”

“My team’s going after a werewolf at Weeping Lake. There are civilans at risk. Is there anyone, anyone at all, who can come to back them up?” Hy heart was stuttering in my chest and for the second time that night I was crying.

“I think everyone that can be spared is dealing with the wolf downtown. I’ll ask around though.” She looked back at the chaos that was the bull ben mid-emergency.

“Yeah, do that.” I turned my back and started going through team reports to see if there was anyone left I could call. There had to be someone. I couldn’t leave my team stranded, even if they were being noble idiots. 

Seth rolled in with his etenal perfect timing. “What’s going on?”

I recounted the situation and Seth frowned. I knew him too well. This wasn’t his unhappy or angry frown. This was the frown that he had before he gave bad news. 

“Joy, we can’t spare anyone to help. Even if we could, I’m not spilling good blood after bad by sending another team after them.” He put a hand up to stop me before I could even start to argue. He knew me as well as I knew him. “Relax. They might not even need the help. Maybe they’ll wise up before they get into the park and just hold the cabins. It’s also a really big park. There’s a good chance they won’t even run into the wolf.”

There was a chance they wouldn’t run into the wolf. It was about as good as them growing a brain and not going in after the hikers. I was not that lucky. The fact that Seth wouldn’t give me another team was proof of that. 

He patted me on the back. “Wait until they radio in again. If they need help and the incident downtown is cleared up, I’ll see if anyone is willing to go in after them. Until then, we don’t want to pull anyone off thier current mission.”

There was no way I was just going to sit and wait while my team got itself killed. One of the core rules of being a hunter was to ask forgiveness, not permission. Even though I would never see the field again, I was still a hunter at heart. When Seth rolled away I waited a minute to make sure he was out of earshot before picking up the coms and calling up my old team mate.

Hard Hunting
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James’s Note: I grew up watching a lot of police procedural shows, and I loved CSI. I’ve always thought a fantasy crime scene investigator would make an awesome TV show premise. THis is me trying my hand at that idea.

---

The body hadn’t turned to dust like the popular novels would have you believe. It was desiccated, a skeleton covered in mummified skin. When a vampire like Conchobar Moragain dies, he reverts to looking like the several thousand year old corpse he is.

As I looked around the room, I saw signs of a struggle. Some of the furniture was knocked over, everything was in disarray, and there was blood spatter in places that weren’t consistent with whatever had practically painted the walls in it.

The thing is, there weren’t enough signs of struggle. If a master vampire had engaged in a fight for his life, this room should look like a bombed out World War II German bunker. Not to mention the chunk of the city that may or may not be missing too. So that was interesting right there.

I had talked to Anton when we got here. Apparently the master vampire’s servants had come to bring him his cornflakes and O negative or whatever it is servants do for a vampire first thing in the evening when they found him like this. His security had been crawling around the building like flies on a roadkill possum when I had showed up, but Anton was able to wave them off easily. He and all the assorted lackeys were waiting outside, at my insistence. 

Supposedly no one had entered the room after they realized that their master was dead. Supposedly. I had a few tests that would verify that.

The mundane CSI portion of my job done, I got ready for the fun part. From my bag I took my shambles, a construct made of string and various occult doodads. It told me that they had actually been telling the truth, and a minimum of fiddling about had been done to the scene.  

A few tests performed with my portable alchemy kit showed that all the blood belonged to the victim. If the victim had been human, that would be truly remarkable. There certainly appeared to be more blood spread around the penthouse than a human shaped body could reasonably be expected to hold. However, since the victim was a vampire, and an old one at that, this was actually about right.

You see, the vampiric drinking and metabolizing of blood is a semi mystical process. While a vampire does swallow blood, and it does travel to their stomach, after that the physics get a little funny. As near as I’ve been able to tell from my studies, the blood suffuses their entire being, apparently up to and including their aura. What this actually means is that as a vampire grows in power, so does how much blood he can hold. This blood is then used for all sorts of things, from healing to fueling all those neat vampiric powers they’re so proud of.

This means that if an ancient vampire wants to operate at maximum power, they need quite a bit more blood than your average young fang-banger who just wants to get by. It also explains why our victim was as blood bloated as a tick on a Basset Hound.

I used a glass of water and an egg from a duck who has never flown to check for magic. When I cracked the egg into the water, it was shot through with black, spider web-like lines. That definitely confirmed that some kind of magic had been used here, although I still wasn’t sure what type. The vampire’s inherent magic was muddying the results. If I hadn’t been careful to exclude the vampire aura that suffused the room, the egg would probably have been full of blood when I cracked it.

I repacked all my bits and bobs into my messenger bag, and went to go talk to Anton in the hall.

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Sharon’s note: One of my favorite parts of RPGs are dialog choices. My only complaint is that whatever you choose is not always what the character says. It’s dangerous to assume you know what the game’s writers means. I promise you guys that if I give you a dialog choice, what I put down is exactly what you say. Take that, Bioware. Warning: Just because it’s funny to say now, doesn’t mean you won’t regret it later. Of course, it doesn’t mean it’s won’t be worth it.

---

I grab the corner of Alex’s hoodie and drag them down next to me. They resist for a second before crouching down, staring at me with an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Hey, that’s like a teacher coming, right?” I hiss at them.

“The vice-principal, but yeah.” Alex reaches up and gropes around the table for a moment before bringing a napkin down to wipe their hands.

“If they ask, say I didn’t start it. Please?” I have to raise my voice a little to be heard over the vice-principal’s shouts.

“You want me to lie for you?” They laugh.

“It’s barely a lie,” I beg. “Clarissa’s been gunning for me all day, so she really started this. Please? It’s my first day. My parent’s will kill me if I get detention.”

“Literally or figuratively?” Alex asks.

“What? Figuratively, I guess.” That’s a weird question. I glance under the table and see gray slacks and shiny black shoes stalking towards the table. I open my mouth to plead some more, but Alex waves me off.

“Don’t worry, I got you.” They were laughing again.

Clarissa’s wailing stops, and I can hear the man clearly for the first time.

“Please shut up Miss Roberts. You aren’t injured.” The vice-principal huffs. “Now who started this stupidity?”

Alex stands up fearlessly. I rise with significantly less confidence. The vice-principal is a tall, well dressed man in his late forties. His bald head shines like he polished it and his expression says he is not amused. Clarissa points an accusing finger at me.

“Sh-she started it!” Her words are stuttered by hiccups and if her mascara was any more smeared she would look like a raccoon. “She d-dumped that sh-shit spag-hetti on me and s-she hit me ea-earlier!”

“Language, Miss Roberts.” The vice-principal doesn’t sound particularly excited by her argument.    

“Well, that’s bull shit.” Alex crosses their arms. “Princess there started it, and from what I hear, she’s been after April all day.”

Voices chime in from all over the cafeteria. Some are supporting Clarissa, but more are crying my innocence. Max is staring at the ground trying not to be noticed and Wannabe is just playing gone. I don’t think most of these people yelling their version of events actually saw what happened, they just want to see Clarissa in trouble. I can get behind that.

The vice-principal’s eyes scan over the crowd. He takes a deep breath and focuses on me. “Follow me to my office.”

My nostrils flare and I put my hands on my hips. “What? Why? You just heard everyone say I didn’t do it.”

He just stares at me, unimpressed. “You’re covered in, what is that? Corn? I figured you would want to go home and change. You’ll need to call your parents.”

Everyone else is covered in far more food than me, but he isn’t calling them to the office. I open my mouth to snap back, but Alex whispers behind me, “Go. You’ll be fine.”

Alex did lie for me. It’s a better reason than most to trust them. I nod, and when the vice-principal turns on his heel and stalks away, I follow. As I walk by, Clarissa draws a finger across her throat, eyes full of rage. 

The walk to the main office is quiet. The vice-principal tells the woman at the main desk to call my mother while leading me on to his office. The plaque on the wall says Mr. Franks. 

He sits at his desk and motions for me to do the same before saying, “I think there are some things you need to understand about this school, Miss . . . Russo, is it? Things that aren’t exactly normal. Things that could get you hurt, or worse.”

I raise an eyebrow and say, “

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James’s Note: In this episode, we have Daniel playing a little CSI. Come to think of it, I would totally watch an urban fantasy CSI spin off. Some one should get on that.

---

And so it was that I came to find myself, around midnight, standing in a penthouse suite whose sheer opulence might make a miser burst into flames. Looking at the furniture made me want to chant “rich Corinthian leather” like a mantra, and the vaulted ceiling housed a chandelier that would have been at home in Phantom of the Opera. Tapestries that no doubt belonged in museums helped to conceal state-of-the-art security blinds that automatically covered the windows. Blinds like those are a must-have for the rich vampire who likes a view, but remembers that he is flammable.

While I would have loved to stand around admiring decor that beggered my net worth, my attention was drawn inexorably to the crime scene I was here to investigate. It was pretty hard to ignore, since the walls were covered in so much blood it looked like an abstract painting done by a meth head with an air cannon. Also, there was a dead vampire crucified to the wall and that’s just not something you see everyday.

I grabbed my messenger bag, ruffled around in it for the gear I would need, and began my investigation. I started off with the mundane stuff, taking pictures with my phone, checking to make sure contamination had been kept to a minimum, and making notes on all the physical details of the scene.

The victim was the very, very late Conchobhar Moragain. He was so old that when his name was given to him, I bet it didn’t even sound like it should belong to a comic book villain. Given the fact that at the time comic books wouldn’t even be invented for a couple thousand years, I’d almost guarantee it.

Currently, he was crucified to the sheetrock of his luxurious living room, pinned in place by three short pieces of rebar. I noted that he was pierced through his wrists and ankles, rather than his hands and feet. You see the hand and foot depiction of crucifixion in paintings often, but it’s not terribly realistic. The weight of a body is too much to be supported by something driven through a hand, and the nail or what have you will rip right through. Don’t ask me how I know.

The unfortunate Mr. Moragain had also been decapitated. His head was sitting about a foot above his neck, pinned in place by a fourth piece of rebar driven through the eye socket. I mentally considered making some kind of joke about getting ahead, but decided that I’m better than that. Not a lot better mind you, but definitely better than that.

Written on the wall to his right in what I can only assume was his blood, although I’d have to verify that later, were the words, “No More Kings”.

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Sharon’s Note: I never got into a food fight in school. There even was one when I was in high school, it just wan’t during my lunch. This may be one of my deeper regrets. I have been in a cake fight, though. I highly recommend them. Warning: Characters doing things the author wishes she had done.

---

Both Max and Clarissa are focused on Alex. Wannabe is hovering by my shoulder. Pretty much the entire cafeteria is frozen in silence, waiting to see who makes the next move. I’m not one to wait for anyone, and besides, bitch owes me a shirt.

I scoop up the hand full of nasty spaghetti from my plate, the oily noodles mashing inbetween my fingers, and hurl it at Clarissa’s face.

Spaghetti is not aerodynamic. Oh, it hits Bottle-blond, but not before coming apart mid flight and splattering over Max, her, and a couple of random bystandards behind her. For just a second, the perfect silence stands. Max is staring at me in pure puzzlement. Then sound resumes as Clarissa begins to cry.

She puts her hands to her side and tilts her head back to wail like a siren. Max winces and takes a step away from her. He picks a noodle off his shoulder and holds it up to me with a raised eyebrow.

Alex burst out laughing. They laugh so hard they double over, all menace gone from their demeanor. Once Alex laughs, others start, and soon the entire room is filled with laughter. Then someone gets brave and throws a second handful of spaghetti at Clarissa. It seems like no one likes her any more than I do. 

“Hey, stop that!” A girl yells. I think she’s one of the girls Clarissa was with this morning. She takes a small carton of milk and throws it. I don’t know who she meant to throw it at, but it hits some poor guy who was just watching. Milk soaks his nice clean letter jacket. 

Well, shit. The food fight is on. 

Food is flying everywhere. I duck behind the table for cover, near Alex’s legs. They are standing up, grabbing stuff from my lunch tray to chuck with reckless abandon. Clarissa’s voice is still audible above the din as she screams like a banshee. A spatter of cream corn catches my shoulder from over the table. Where did that come from? There wasn’t any cream corn on the lunch line. 

“That’s enough! THAT’S ENOUGH!” The voice that’s breaking through all the other noise is older, male, and authoritarian. I started this fight. Well, not the original fight, but they were going to pin the food fight on me. 

Wannabe is crouched down near me, protecting his leather jacket. He said he could sneak me out before the fight started, so he may know the quickest way out. Then again, he’s a jerk. Do I really want to be alone with him? If I stay, I’ll have to face the music and possibly get in trouble on my fist day, but maybe I could get Alex or someone else who hates Bottle-blond to lie for me and say I didn’t do it.

The chaos is starting to calm. If I’m going to do something it has to be now.

I

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Sharon’s note: High school sucks. This is a well documented phenomenon. It’s also one of the few things that teen supernatural romances get right. They also have far to little adult supervision allowing kids to get away with all sorts of horrible things. And now I’m not sure if I’m talking about fantasy or reality. Warning: Things could get messy.

---

I take my tray to the table with the most open chairs. The kid in the hoodie is there, staring at the phone in their lap. I shoot a smug look over at Wannabe. His eyes are wide and impossibly, he’s gotten more pale. Max’s gestures for me to join him have gotten desperate. 

I’m mouthing ‘what?’ at him when the kid in the hoodie says, “What are you doing at my table?”

Their face is turned up finally and . . . I’m not sure exactly what to think their defining feature is. Artistically beautiful? Supremely arrogant? Totally androgynous? They’re all of those things.

I cross my arms and say defensively, “Sorry. I didn’t see name cards, so I figured it was just sit wherever.”

They cocked their head to one side. “You’re the girl who punched Clarissa this morning, aren’t you?”

I shrug, trying to look like I don’t care, but ready for a fight if this kid is a friend of the bottle-blond bully. “Yeah. So what?”

They lean forward to put their elbows on the table and prop their chin on their folded hands. “That may have been the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in a while. Just for that, you can stay.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission.” I narrow my eyes at them. 

They laugh. “Oh, you don’t need it. It’s just a good idea. I’m Alex by the way.”

“April.” I pick up my fork and start clawing it through my spaghetti. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Honestly?” They raise an eyebrow and I nod. “The food here is terrible and I forgot my lunch.”

I snort and take a bite of my spaghetti. It tastes like cardboard coated in grease. “You’re right. It’s horrible. So, while I decide whether or not I’m going to throw up, why isn’t anyone else sitting here?”

“Well, I suppose it’s because my introduction to the school was very similar to yours. Someone tried to show me the pecking order and I . . . corrected them.” They glance over my shoulder and sit up. I follow their gaze and Bottle-blond is making a b-line straight for me. “And this promises to be entertaining.”

Heads turns to watch Clarissa as she stalks across the cafeteria. By the time she’s standing next to me, we have quite an audience. To my shame, she doesn’t even have a mark from earlier, but her pride looks plenty hurt.

“Hey, bitch!” Her chin is lifted like she’s daring me to take another swing. “Do you think you’re going to get away with that shit you pulled earlier?”

“Do you think you’re going to get away with pulling this shit at my table?” Alex says, mildly.

Clarissa pales. I don’t think she saw Alex until just now. She looks scared, but is standing her ground. “This is none of your business, freak.”

“Freak?” Alex asks, rising from their seat. Their voice is somewhere between delighted and incredulous.

“She did not mean that.” I jump, because Max is suddenly there from nowhere. He’s beside and a little in front of Clarissa, who has started shaking. 

“Pst!” I hear a hiss from over my shoulder and jump again to see Wannabe just behind me. He whispers, “This is about to get ugly. You should get out of here. Follow me.”

I

 

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James’s Note: Survival is hard, and surviving alone is harder. There is a reason humans have always banded together. You guys decided to go looking for allies and friends. Let’s hope you fins what you’re looking for.

---

After you eat another breakfast of jerky and vanilla wafers, you decide you better give your wound some attention. After 10 minutes of painful twisting to apply disinfectant and bandages to a hard-to-reach place, you get a bad feeling that is almost a premonition.

You need help. You don’t think you’re going to make it alone.

Once you get back on the road, it’s not long before you come to a familiar turn off. You remember taking that road every time you and your dad would visit his buddy Sam.

You used to love visiting Sam. He smoked a huge Sherlock Holmes pipe, cussed in a couple different languages, and told the coolest stories about places he may or may not have been when he was or was not in the military. He also had a daughter a little younger than you. You weren’t  all that interested in girls back then, but even then you remember thinking she was pretty cool.

Damn, you think, you sure could use a guy like Sam right about now.

On a whim more than anything, you slide off the road, and start heading to the small town where you and your dad used to go fishing with Sam.

As soon as the town comes into sight, you can see it looks pretty rough. Some of the buildings look burned, most look abandoned, and pretty much all the windows are broken.

You find some thick brush where you pull off the road, and use it to camouflage your Jeep. You figure it’s better to proceed foot than to announce your arrival with engine noise.

You holster both your glocks, and sling your rifle over your shoulder, wishing you had more than just the partial magazine of ammo for it.

The undergrowth of the woods has encroached on the town enough that you’re able to transition from slipping through the tree to slipping between the buildings seamlessly.

You start to wonder if there’s anything left in this desolation for you to find, when you hear the voices. You crouch down, take cover behind an old Dollar Store, and scope out the situation.

Across the street, five men have a woman surrounded. She’s either pretty young, really petite, or maybe both. She has her back to the glass window of a store front, the men in a half circle around her.

You can’t hear what she’s saying well from here, but she sounds like she’s pleading. The men you can hear better.

They are telling her all the creative things they’re going to do to her and assuring her that if she just plays nice she won’t even get hurt. You count two handguns and one double barrel shotgun.

What do you do?

 

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Sharon’s note: I hate the broody asshole characters in romances. Being a jerk and hiding away your pain doesn’t make you deep. It makes you immature. Either you guys agree with me, or you just want to choose all the most violent options. Either way, I am totally here for it. Warning: Non violence related option pending.

---

Wannabe is leaning forward and his grin is wide. That works great. I took the extra minute to rinse my shirt in the hopes that it won’t stain. Now it’s practically sopping. I hurl it directly into his face and it makes a very satisfying squelching noise before it plops to the floor.

He’s still leaning forward, but the grin must have fallen off his face with the tee-shirt.

“Go to hell.” I tell him sweetly before I turn on my heel to go to class. He can have the damn shirt.

Fortunately for me, the teacher doesn’t seem to care that I’m late. He’s shuffling through the papers on his desk. I sneak to one of two open desks in a row and pray that he doesn’t notice me. Max is sitting across the room and shyly gives me a thumbs up. He did loan me a shirt, so I return the gesture.

The door opens again and Wannabe struts through it like he owns the place. The teacher looks up and frowns. “Mr. Drakon, so good of you to join us.”

“Oh, no problem.” Wannabe smirks. The teacher’s frown turns into a glower while a scant few kids in class chuckle. Of course, the only place for Wannabe to sit is directly behind me. At least his hair looks a little messed up.

With a little huff of displeasure, the teacher gets up and starts a lecture on the civil war. Honestly, I’m not listening. Partially because the teacher is really boring, but also because Wannabe is hovering over my shoulder and breathing down my neck.

“You never heard my condition.” He whispers. 

“You never got out of my way.” I grumble.

“But all I wanted was a kiss.” He’s so close I can almost feel his lips against my skin. 

I look back over my shoulder. Yep, he is entirely too close. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeats, seemingly confused by the question.

“Yeah, why? You don’t know me. The only reason for you to ask something like that is if you’re trying to be an asshole.”

“I’m . . . I’m not an asshole.” He sits back in his chair, looking hurt. “I mean, I’m a little wild, but . . .”

“No, I’m pretty sure you’re an asshole.” I turn my attention away from him. 

He doesn’t bother me for the rest of class. I even manage to get out of there without talking to him again. Everything is uneventful until lunch. Now comes the trial of every new kid. Where to sit. 

The tables are large and round. They sit about eight people cozily. Across the room is Max, who is desperately gesturing for me to sit with him and his friends. It looks like he saved me a seat next to him. 

Wannabe is also trying to get my attention. His bid is holding up my shirt and pointing to it with an apologetic smile. 

There are a few other tables with open seats. The closest one has a group of girls that are all wearing anime tee-shirts and seem to be in a hot debate. There’s another with only a single person at it. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, but they’ve got a slight frame, are wearing a black hoodie, and people are avoiding them like the plague.

I

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