calliopemused - dance of the skeletons

8/19/2019 CalliopeMused - Dance of the Skeletons

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Dance of the Skeletons

Story: Dance of the Skeletons

Storylink: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2583304/1/

Category: Teen Titans

Genre: Drama/Romance

Author: CalliopeMused

Authorlink: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/742890/

Last updated: 09/17/2006

Words: 333086

Rating: T

Status: Complete

Content: Chapter 1 to 64 of 64 chapters

Source: FanFiction.net

Summary: .AU. Five teenagers were in detention on the second day of school. It looked like a bad s tart to their senior

year but that was before five Titans s et out to change the town. By the end of the year, Forston will be changed, one wayor another.

https://www.fanfiction.net/u/742890/https://www.fanfiction.net/s/2583304/1/


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*Chapter 1*: A Detention and A Delinquent

Full Summary: Well, actually, to be completely hones t- this is the abridged version. The full lis t is invading nine pages of

notebook paper at this raw point in development, and I'm not giving away all my twists. Basically, almos t all (I'll never claim all- I'd forget something) important events from the s how (that I can convert into a real setting and I consider us eful

for character development and the growth of a plot) are twisted into a normal universe, set loose in Forston, and used to

cause general chaos. Be on the lookout for cameos of the rich and the famed from the comic book universe- what's an

alternate universe without a hyper-concentration of old friends and enemies and complete strangers? With funny, sad,

happy, serious, light, dark, and genuinely odd mom ents, they are the Teen Titans. You don't need superpowers to beheroes, but uniforms help.

Edits: Beginning August 27th, 2007, small changes will be made throughout the story in an attempt to weed out the

glaring mistakes, smooth out plotlines, and let me figure out how on earth this story became so long.

Just a few quick (sort of) disclaimers :

1. Couples are not changing from my opinions . So, deal or go away. Flame me, and I'll laugh it off. I have just enough

confidence in what I'm writing to not be dis couraged by a flame or two. (If there are more flames than reviews, I'm either

not doing well or attracting the wrong readers .)

2. This story is rated T. So, this is your warning. This is rated Teen- there will be physical relationships, cursing,

violence and adult themes . Violence is a part of life for heroes, and some teenagers. If you still want to read the story,

there will be warnings on chapters with any graphic violence, and swearing is at a m inimum. Physical relationships willnot progress to the stage that it will make people too uncomfortable to read, even if insinuations are made.

3. This is an alternate universe. So, powers, circumstances, villains, histories, events, and all other applicable canon

can and will be changed to fit a fairly realistic setting. If details are s lightly different, I'm taking artistic license. Not

everything will be perfect- that's what happens when you make up pas ts.

4. I don't own the Teen Titans. This disclaimer applies to the entire story. If there is a change in this s tatus, I'll be sure to

let you know. Got it? Good. I'll say this once more, for the last time this story: The Teen Titans are not mine. Thank you

and good day (or night, or whatever it is where you are), keep being a great audience.

5. Chapter length will very. This will be a long s tory, and som e chapters will have more happening in them . This is just a

fact of fiction, especially fiction published (or close enough) so casually.

6. Constructive criticism accepted, appreciated, and noted. If a mistake somehow confuses the s tory, feel free to askquestions. If you ask a question in a review that merits an answer (no, plot points will not be disclosed), I'll post the

response on the next chapter. Reviews help me know which parts of this story are good/could be better/are something to

read while s litting wrists (well, I hope not, but you never know).

7. Forston is set in California, even if I never do find the need to s tate this fact. They're staying close to their origins , even

if many other liberties have been taken with names, identities, pasts, likes, dislikes, and mustard.

8. Real names: Starfire is Kori Anders, Robin is Richard Grayson, Beast Boy is Garfield Logan, Cyborg is Victor Stone,and las t but not least, Raven is Rachel Roth. This is just to clear up any confusion for those who haven't seen the Titans'

real names before. Pairings are to be announced.

9. President William Howard Taft is the only (known) president to have been s tuck in a White House bathtub. Now that I

know I have your attention, or at least the attention of those people bored enough to read a rather lengthy author's note,enjoy the story, and thanks for humoring the rambling person.

Dance of the Skeletons

Chapter One: A Detention and a Delinquent

"You all missed the first day of school, without an excused absence." The assistant principal was not pleased. He was

staying after school in a room thick with the smell of new paint (Regulation Beige, approved by schools, prisons, andpsychiatric institutions everywhere). The paint's lingering fumes buried even the scent of his infamous oily hair pomade.

He brushed an invisible speck of dust from a neatly ironed faded suit, attempting to glare his small group of miscreants

into submission. Well, two out of five looked like pushovers.


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"Mr. Evans, I-"

He cut the unfortunate girl off. "Miss Anders, don't speak out of turn. It is known that you lack your s ister's exemplary

conduct. Connie was right to confess she m ay have given you too much information and confused you, but she did make

the attempt to get you to class in time." His glare worked. Her indignant defiance faded to sham e, and the dull

resentment of her sister and everyone who liked Connie so much. Well, he wasn't the designated disciplinarian for

nothing. The principal was far too nice and willing to "understand" students, and had even suggested that the girl should

not even have this briefest of warning detentions. "Any other excuses?"

"Yes." The speaker was the smalles t of the all-senior group, a scrawny teen only confirmed a m ember of the twelfthgrade by his color-coded lanyard to hold the school ID. Green for seniors , white for juniors , black for sophomores, brown

for freshman- it helped to dis tinguish freshmen at a distance.

"A good excuse, Mister Logan?"

"Yes." Garfield Logan was new to the school, as was Miss Anders. He was small, but willing to fight (and lose, but that

was a little known fact until som eone actually did fight him). "I was in the hospital. One of my guardians cal led you to

inform the offices that I was having a few tests run, but you hung up."

Mr. Evans fixed him with his fiercest look. The kid quailed, but after a few seconds of determined s taring. "Shelia Young

is not the most . . . stable of people."

Garfield glowered, but didn't respond to the ins ult with a fight. He kept his cool. "Shelia Young is m y foster mother, Mr.

Evans, and has been judged fit by the state." He left the bad history between Nurs e Young and Mr. Evans out of it.

The principal moved on, choosing the next likely target. Save the known trouble spots for las t, after all. "Victor Stone, do

you have a better reason?"

The only response was an impassive look, which finally gave way to a verbal answer. The captain of the varsity soccer

team was not easily intimidated by Mr. Evans, when the other two assistant principals and the main principal were on his

side. "Let Miss Anderson have a chance."

"It's Kori," Miss Anderson said with a shyly grateful smile. "There was no confusion," she said, gaining a little courage.

"Connie said she would wake m e in time to make the bus. She did not." She didn't give into any amount of disapproving

looks, when someone else would support her.

Victor didn't sm ile, but looked much less unreachable. He'd made Evans back off, the least he could do. It wasn't right topick on someone smaller, just because you could. There weren't many people bigger than him, so his philosophy was

close to universal. "Electricity in my house was out. My father was doing an experiment and blew all fuses and cookedthe phone lines . He left a mess age two hours ago in the attendance office, Mr. Evans."

Mr. Evans b lustered, but couldn't find a problem or ins ubordination in the careful speech. Well, easier mark first- either of

the las t two could prove difficult. "Mr. Grayson, we m eet again."

The respons e was a meant-to-be-inarticulate mutter. It contained several words that weren't acceptable by the LanguageGuidelines he had written just las t year and pos ted industriously in every class room, next to the Guidelines for a

Successful Year (also authored by Evans himself). Grayson also used a few more unpleasant words that Evans had

never heard before. He would have to update his Guidelines. "I was busy."

Mr. Evans allowed a hint of a sm ile to fall in place. He was going in for the kill. "According to the call from your house, youwere watching television, tuned to a History channel special of som e sort."

Richard yawned. "Was it? I was sleeping, which is more productive than this dump."

Mr. Evans would get nothing more from Richard, who had been casually diagnosed as an antisocial psychopath. He had

a final target, often implicated by crying cheerleaders, football players, intellectuals, Goths, and al l other clique nam e-

bearing kids for verbal abuse. She didn't discriminate. No one was safe from her venom, as she had proved for the last

three years of high school. Teachers bore the worst of it. "Miss Rachel Roth."

She had a face that was rumored to have been frozen in place when Nefretiri died. She was pretty enough, by all hushed

opinions of guys who would rather live another day without her finding the weakest part of her ego. She had reduced an

up-and-coming star linebacker to tears when he tried asked her out the year before. She had been a freshman coming

from eight years of home school. The football player didn't have a chance. The stray kind souls to attempt including her inany way had been brutally shot down. She didn't take handouts.


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"I plead the fifth, Mr. Richards." That was her trademark response to almos t every allegation. She always would admit to

whatever it was she was accused of. She jus t couldn't be bothered to care what it was. It was her answer to why her hair

was dyed purple, her eyes were violet, why her skin looked gray, why she was always such a freak (or Goth, or bitch, or heartless demon), and what she had said this time.

Instead, she drew complex figures of lines across the inside of her arm, tracing with a finger. She could hardly say what

she had been doing during the hours the school thought they deserved. That was her business. She could imagine the

look on Evans's face- on all of their faces- if she said what she had been doing. Then, she would have a few more titlesadded to her lis t. She wouldn't look forward to any of them, or the looks people would give her.

Mr. Evans considered. What to do, what to do- he didn't want to deal with them, the room was far too hot, the window was

stuck, high school students would often form a temporary alliance against any disciplinary figure- he had it. "You willdiscuss why you were late, and how to ensure that this doesn't happen again. Once you all s ign the statement form, you

will be free to go- just send someone with it to my office." Perfect. Not too bad of an arrangement, if he did say so

himsel f. They could deal with the two mos t frequent visi tors to his office, he could have a break- and be paid for dealing

with the kids on double-paid overtime. Life was good.

Kori waited until Mr. Evans had let the door to the tiny Supplementary Classroom clos e before sm iling at the others. "I

ust will not trust Connie. She's nine and a half months older than me, and is usually responsible for bad things

happening to me." Losing her shyness, she reeked of optimis tic enthusiasm.

Gar shrugged. "I was in the local hospital's emergency room. He doesn't like Shelia because she helped his wife find a

good divorce lawyer."

"The ER? What for?" Victor asked.

Gar shrugged again, this time looking uncomfortable. "I had some weird symptoms. I was there for a series of tests, a

few precautionary extra meds , a quick check-up; nothing major."

Obviously, the guy didn't want to talk about it. Vic dropped the subject. "My dad has the whole basement for a lab, and is

trying out electromagnetic treatments on different diseases. He screwed up the power levels, but it won't happen again."

Kori laughed, smi le springing naturally to her face. "What did your mother say?"

Vic tried to not let his express ion change. She was too sens itive to see the las t remnants of anger from what had

happened. "They spl it four and a half years ago, but she would have been down there with him . She's still in research."

"I'm sorry," Kori apologized, blushing. "I didn't-"

"I know. It's fine, Kori." He looked at a scowling Richard. "Your dad lets you watch His tory Channel instead of going to

school?" Victor moved the attention away from Kori. She needed the break.

"My dad is dead, and wouldn't have cared. All my mom did for me was try to name me som ething my father didn't approve

of. My uncle has given up on me, and I'm Forest Gates's res ident juvenile delinquent." The rich gated comm unity in the

center of Forston, home of the Forston High School Falcons, wasn't any more fond of him . His tone left no room for apologies.

Rachel s lowly let her gaze wander over three expectant and one apathetic face. "I had something better to do." They

weren't buying it, with that little emotion. Time to lie. "Christiana- that's my mom - needed m e to take her to her

obstetrician. Raoul's out of town, and the housekeeper does n't drive. My mom doesn't want anyone to know about thebaby yet." There. Typical names, circumstances , and events. It wasn't remotely true.

"So, we can leave now?" Richard as ked.

Rachel didn't answer. She signed the assistant principal's form and left. Richard followed, going the opposite way once

he maneuvered through a narrow doorway. Kori express ed wishes to see the two again, not-so-dis cretely catching a

final glance of Richard before signing the slip of paper and walking away.

"Wow. Somebody warned me about an ice demon, when I was regis tering for class, but she looked completely frozen."

Well, she was unmis takable- purple hair, purple eyes, can't miss her, avoid at all costs.

"She's not that bad," Victor said.

"What?" He hadn't expected anyone to defend her.


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"I met her when s he was five. She still had the same hair and eyes. She isn't shy, really; she just does n't like people. I

still play soccer with her, whenever she comes around."

It could just be his size, but Gar considered Victor a pretty big guy, and large collections of mus cles didn't hurt the idea

that Victor could knock Gar out without any problem at all. "Soccer? I'd expect-"

"Football, or basketball. I'm okay at them, but soccer's my sport. My dad wis hes I played something a little more-

traditional, I guess, but I like soccer."

"You s till play? With her, I mean?" If she was n't going to bite his head off if he tagged along, maybe he could try this newgame. He had heard that soccer was one of few contact sports where s ize wasn't too big of a handicap, even if the

smallest players could be sent flying by a legal shoulder.

"Not often. Ever since freshman year, all she's done in public is lash out at anyone who gets too close. She comes over

every six, seven weeks- on Saturday, if she's com ing. She does n't say, I don't ask. We jus t play soccer. You ever play

before?"

"I've played soccer on GameStation, when I lived with fos ters that had a system."

Victor grinned, shaking his head. "It's different in person. You're going to be a sm ear on my lawn after ten minutes. I play

offensively, she always defends. She steals the ball and runs with it- if I score on her twice an hour, it's a good day. After

figuring out ways to face her, people think I'm s ome prodigy when I do the sam e to an opponent's defense. You can

come over to play GS, to try and get an idea of how it works before playing real time." He hadn't mis sed a rare look pas s

through Gar's eyes when he looked at Rachel. Not many were naïve, foolish, or new enough to even consider such

thoughts.

"I need practice?" Gar asked, s igning his name on the line to show he had been present for a Cautionary Attendance

Meeting.

"Unless you want to be laughed off the field, that would be a yes."

"After school, tomorrow?"

"Sounds good." Vic scrawled his name on the las t line. "I'll call you with directions ." He jotted the number Gar dictated

onto a scrap of paper. "Tomorrow, grass stain."

"Tomorrow," he agreed. Vic took the sheet to the assistant, and Gar slipped out the side door to start walking hom e. He

had a few m iles to go, to get out of Forest Gates and into the borderline poor part of Forston. He s aw a flashy car that had

to be Vic's, by the soccer cleats on the dash. He had a friend already. For a foster shrimp, that was a new record.

.Richard Grayson.

Richard was not the golden boy of the block. He wasn't even close to bronze. If he was near the awards podium, it was

probably to knock someone flat on their back. In the Neighborhood's class consciousness, he was the Juvenile

Delinquent Who Will End Up In Jail. He made no effort to change their minds. His social worker had been overjoyed to

find his uncle a week after Richard's father "disappeared." Richard had liked his father. They had shared more than onegood time. He wouldn't have minded that the entire neighborhood knew his son's age and status in the criminal justice

system. His father would have been proud of a son that slashed the tires of a school official he frequently had problems

with. Evans would know who i t had been, but there was no proof.

Richard's father had taught him how to fight as s oon as he could walk. He had never been involved in martial arts- pansyfighting, in his father's opinion. Instead, he learned the ways of fighting his father used. Street-fighting meant that the

smallest kid could use speed and cleverness to beat out anyone. As he grew stronger, he learned how to use that,

punching and kicking and disarming opponents.

At six, he had learned how to fight with guns. He could s teal a gun, dodge bullets (rubber ones for practice, of cours e-

nasty welts, but a mistake wouldn't be deadly), use a stolen gun, and had marksmanship that the Marines would

probably accept. He had to be good. His father's one goal in his son was to make him a fighter, so he could defend

himself. Richard could never bring himself to let his father down.

At seven, he was the only first grader who didn't back away from s ixth graders on the playground. Four of them jumped

him after school once, after he called them brutes not worthy of his time. Three were unconscious and one was sobbing

"uncle" when the teachers and principal ran to break up the fight.

He still remembered sitting in the office, swinging his legs in the most cavalier way possible, waiting for his dad to arrive.


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He was nervous, not that he would ever admit it. He had been a little sloppy with the second, and had a glancing bruise

on his shoulder. And- what if his father had changed his mind? The teacher, a smiling and demure young lady who had

looked ready to burst with happiness at the sight of children to teach, had told him fighting was against The Rules, whichwere Not To Be Broken. She spoke to him as i f he were seven. He was used to being talked to as an adult, so the rules

(with no capitals, in his opinion) had been disregarded.

He needn't have worried. His father was proud of him, even if he said the appropriate words and nodded gravely at his

teacher's speech. Richard could tell. His father's hand was on his shoulder, with just enough pressure to s how thetouch wasn't accidental. Affectionate physical contact was very rare. His father took him home early, promising better

behavior the next day. In the car and out of sight of administrators happy to have solved a Problem, his father requested aplay-by-play.

He hadn't been at all disappointed about the bruise. He had taken a look at the boys to ambush his son. Four against

one meant that the accepted testimony was that Richard started it. Looking at the damage, it seemed more than

possible. His father hadn't minded. Instead, he told his son that he was proud of him. Fighting wasn't nice, he explained,

but som etimes it was the only way to keep your head above water.

Two weeks pass ed, with Richard had kept his nose clean in school and moved onto wrestling and close-quarters

fighting with his father, before the unthinkable happened. His father didn't come home.

Richard had always known that his father had an odd schedule. He would disappear for days, and come back withgunshot wounds and presents. But he never lied. If his father said two o'clock Thursday, he meant two o'clock on the dot

on Thursday. If he said he was proud of him, he meant it, and Richard knew that he could be happy. His father had a

different job than most parents , but it paid the bills , and more than that.

He still rem embered his last phone call. He had asked why he didn't have a mother- in class that day, they had learned

about families . His father had told him that his mom had died jus t after he was born, from injuries completely unrelated

to Richard. She had wanted to name him Robin, but his father had disagreed. That had been the last time he spoke to

her- after that, she had hemorrhaged severely from a bullet wound. His father kept a tough front, and Richard had never

seen him cry- but he had also never seen him date like the friends that had come over once in awhile.

Richard walked hims elf to and from school, and had his own key no one else was to see. Seven-year-olds usually

couldn't watch themselves. He prided himself on it. He had a schedule. He would get himself up with a blast of radio

from the alarm clock, get dress ed, eat cereal for breakfast, put away the dishes, pack a lunch or take money from the

folder his father left, and practice his lates t set of exercises . After school, there was more practice, dinner (usually

microwave-heated canned pasta), work on reading with his father's gun manuals, and then go to bed. A simple

schedule, but it was enough.

He was home early on Thursday, a half day of school. He worked on his wrestling, practiced sharp-shooting in the

basement range, and made sure the box of bandages was open and access ible. He was sitting by the window at 1:30

P.M., ready for his father to come home. At 2:01, he was nervous. At 9:00, he knew that something had happened. He

knew what to do. He went to bed, slept however uneas ily, and went to school as if nothing had happened.

Four and a half weeks later, there was no news. The house had one can of processed food left, and he was out of

money. Richard had exhausted the envelope of funds, however mis erly he had spent. He stayed after class to speak to

the teacher, and calmly informed her that his father hadn't been home for over a month.

Two days la ter, Richard Grayson arrived at his uncle 's house with two suitcases, a large trust fund, and a longing for his

old hobbies. They had confiscated all guns, knives, manuals, trash, and writing samples . His uncle was not pleased to

take in an obvious ly violent child. Richard had quickly adapted to the new hous e rules. If he stayed in his room, his uncle

wouldn't give him disapproving speeches and try to get him to open up and act like a normal kid, whatever that was.

He let the door to the elaborate house slam behind him. "I'm home," he called to the empty house, dropping his

backpack on the bench by the front door. His uncle hated that- by morning, it would be neatly hanging in the closet. He

found the usual note on the kitchen table, recycled from a few weeks ago daily. A few grease s pots made the paper

transparent, but the message was common. Busy day of work, don't wait up for me, there's money for delivery on the

fridge. Richard picked up the phone. Pizza again- just like us ual. He hadn't had a break in his routine for years. Practicefighting he hardly ever used in his room, order in pizza, go to school, watch people s top talking whenever he came too

close, and scour the History channel specials about the modern Mafia. His father might come up someday, and he

wouldn't miss him. That was the only gap in the usual day that he looked forward to, just one welcom e change. But

maybe- after ten years- another change might not be so bad.


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*Chapter 2*: Reading Titles

Chapter Two: Reading Titles

School was much easier when there were people to connect with. Kori, Gar, and Vic discovered in their homeroom thatthey all had the same lunch period. Rachel was also in that lunch, but kept her space at a private table no one els e

approached. Richard wasn't as good at maintaining space, and his usual table was overrun by computer nerds. Overall,

he preferred them to the usual collection of people he attracted. His group was small enough to be a little scared of him-

not enough to stay away, but enough to not stare or try to involve him in conversations about gigabytes.

Vic and Gar were quickly friends. Victor liked not scaring som ebody, and having someone at his level in GameStation.

Gar was m ore than happy to have a friend, especially one that found the occas ional joke funny. Victor's father was

working in his company's lab, so Victor's house was always open for video gam es. Victor never mentioned Garfield's

house. If he was invited, he would accept. If not . . . his hous e wouldn't hurt from occas ional occupation. Besides, a guy

could only play video games alone so many times. It was much more s atisfying to flaunt high scores against a

grouching opponent still adapting to his controllers.

Kori had tried coming over once, but she didn 't enjoy their favorite video gam es at all. She still s at at their lunch table,

occasionally trying to follow talk about Mega Monkeys VII. For her benefit, they would discuss movies instead. She knew

more about politics than they would have guess ed- one day, just for variety, they had a mock-debate. Everyone held their

own Friday. The debate would have gone on longer, but Kori had to leave for a weekend trip. She mentioned s omething

about her sister, and that was all.

.Soccer.

Saturday started like any other day. Gar walked over to the hous e a li ttle after noon, after helping Shelia wi th weekend

chores. Victor had a pair of nets in his backyard- they would play one-on-one, casual warm-up.

They had a decent start. Gar quickly figured out that no one side of the net was better to block. Vic's right foot was for

balance. With his left, the ball was directed into doing things Gar had doubted possib le. No matter what trajectory Victor

picked, or how many times he tried to kick softly, impact left bruises with a dis tinct octagonal pattern. Well, they would

turn out interesting.

After playing for forty minutes , the score was Victor 17, Gar 1. The one goal Garfield s cored had come after Victor's

particularly spectacular wipeout. Garfield ran down the field with the ball , popping i t into the net before Victor had a

chance to even s tand up. Gar's one advantage was getting up quickly after falling down.

Rachel walked into the yard, opening the s ide gate without bothering to see if anyone was there. She dis liked the front

hall, for reasons not explained. Whatever the reason, for eleven years she had been walking in the side gate at two o'

clock on the Saturdays s he felt like playing soccer.

"Vic-" she started to say. Then she saw someone else, playing soccer with the ball she had brought a few months ago.

The old one was a bit too battered to go completely straight, and had been retired to Victor's shed. She recognized this

kid. Vaguely greenish skin, scrawny, annoying grin- it was that guy from detention, the new kid. "I see you have other

company." She was ready to leave the yard. No one else had ever come before. Maybe Victor decided he wanted to keep

other company. She wouldn't blame him.

"Play with us, Rachel? You agains t the two of us- it might be fairer, considering how m any times you steal the ball and

ust wait for me to overbalance."

She cons idered. "I'll s tay. He's new, and those are m y old cleats. Maybe they'll be lucky for him ."

"What?" Garfield asked indignantly. What was this, some kind of joke?

Rachel answered for the only person she considered a friend. "Relax. Soccer cleats are unisex. Besides, they're purpleon black. That's not the worst combination out there."

Looking into violet eyes with black pupils, doubting the color combination didn't seem l ike a sm art idea. "Ready to play?"

She didn't answer with words . Instead, she used a twist of her ankle Gar couldn't follow to kick the ball into the air, head-

butting it to Victor. Vic took off towards the goal closest to the fence. Rachel followed after giving him a brief head start,

focused entirely on her opponent.

Gar had thought he was quick. She was no ice demon- speed demoness would be more appropriate. She left divots in

the lawn tearing after whoever was in poss ession. She toed the ball off Vic's right foot, avoiding the left, kicked it

downfield, and was charging pas t Gar before he could think of cowering away from a juggernaut with a soccer ball.


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She only shook her head with a patented Rachel-s tyle death glare when he asked how she could run like that and who

had taught her. Victor shot him a look- don't go there. Once Gar stopped thinking about questions, his fledgling skill at

soccer improved.

Rachel wasn't playing her hardes t, but only Victor knew. When she had let him score four goals and stopped only two

within ten minutes , he did som ething new. He didn't retrieve the ball after she s cored a sloppy goal, clipping the

goalpost. He left the ball. There was something more important.

"Rachel, what's wrong? You can't tell me you're not kicking my ass because you feel sorry for the grass stain over there."

Vic ignored familiar muttering from Gar, who didn't appreciate the nickname and was trying to find one s uitable for Vic.

He had admitted that it was better than shrimp, if only because he'd been one of the smalles t kids in his grade all his

life. Grass stain, however annoying, was at least original.

"Nothing," she snapped, fixing her death glare on Victor for the first time in years. Las t time, he had as ked why she was

more violent than usual after she had literally impaled a soccer ball on sharp cleats.

"Rachel, we're hones t. I've never lied to you, you've never lied to me. Last time, you trusted m e." After the death glare, he

hadn't backed down. She had finally let him know that she was frustrated about her parent's marriage. He had heard

stories about Raoul and Christiana s ince she was nine, and her mother had just m iscarried again. Raoul wanted a boy,

but he had Rachel. She had never looked close to getting emotional- she could have been reading a grocery lis t for all

the inflection she used.

She didn't soften the glare. "I fell. Yesterday. My ankle's s tiff." She took the ball from the net herself, ignoring the fact that

she was wearing jeans on a hot August day, she had wrapped her ankle in bandages, and that she never fell- unless

someone pushed.

Victor hadn't expected anything else. He had his suspicions about Raoul, but they were based on feelings instead of

evidence. He left her statement as it was, remembering her words . Maybe, in a few more years, he'd have an idea about

what her life was like outside his backyard. In a few years- he'd be gone, off to some college, and Rachel would be... he

had no idea. She never shared her nightmares, and her dreams were under even tighter wraps. She hadn't mentioned

those since s he was eight, when she had spoken briefly of going professional for soccer- even then she had sounded

bittersweet about the idea.

Gar didn't know what Victor had taken from the exchange. All he knew was that Rachel took off with the ball without giving

Vic a hint of the head s tart, literally dribbling circles around the both of them, sent the ball in a clean arc jus t below the top

goalpos t, and then left without another word.

"That is Rachel," Victor told Garfield, after there was a s afe pause. "She's not an ice demon. She's the girl who will beat

you at s occer, and not even have the decency to gloat. She's horrible at basketball, though." It was one of the very few

things he had on her. She was quick to stop that boast, if he reminded her- glares were multi-purpose. He never had

suggested tackle football, just in case she was good at it. She left enough bruises in soccer, and he gave as good as he

got.

"I think she needs to smile."

Victor gave him a skeptical look. From calling her an ice demon to deciding she needed to smile- well, at least that was

a step forward. "I've never seen her smile the usual way. Usually, you jus t can see that she isn't glaring or looking pas t

you. She's most relaxed while she's running- not competing, just running."

"I'll get her to smile, sometime."

Victor shrugged. "Your funeral. She won't be happy about it."

He only grinned, looking less pale than usual. "She will once I get through to her. She will."

"Whatever, Garfield. Want to go lose Mega Monkeys Seven again?"

"In your dreams- I'm beating you this time."

.Rachel Roth.

Rachel Roth walked through the front door of her house. She crossed a foyer similar to every other entranceway of the

richest blocks of town. This one was sterile, void of picture or rugs or anything but white marble tile and perfect white

walls- too close to Victor's house for comfort, but without pictures and the occasional shoe or discarded paper with

research-related equations scribbled over a grocery list.


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possession.

She looked at the face that stared back at her. Purple hair- who had that? Violet eyes were no m ore standard. Her face

would forever have a gray cast. Like a corpse, people said. She knew people sometimes looked twice, sometimes

thought that she was beautiful (in a dead body sort of way, any foolish enough to say so out loud quickly added to amend

the statement). She may have been a little too dil igent in her role. Ice Queen, Creepy Bitch, Evil Goth, and Demoness

Extraordinaire. What else could a teenage girl want?

She threw the mirror across the room, as she had done many times before. It never shattered. She could only guess that

her luck was bad enough. All she had was the occasional soccer match- going too often was risky, would send thewrong mess age, might make her think of how much time s he spent alone. Until she thought about how much time she

spent sitting in her quiet room, she could convince herself that she enjoyed solitude. She was an expert at lying, toherself and others.

That was enough. She sat on her bed, neatly made with crisp hospital corners, decorated only with solid black pillows

against purple sheets. She cross ed her legs, bringing them as close as she could to her body, elbows rested on her knees, palms up, fingers curled gently as if she could summ on the solution to her many problems. Breathing slowly and

counting without thinking of numbers , she let all thoughts s lip away, leaving her mind em pty and finally serene.

One memory took longer than expected to clear, words no one thought she had heard. That detention- she had s topped

for a drink of water at the fountain, just after deciding to go for an improm ptu run. Dry throats didn't make for a good jog,or sprint, depending on how she felt. Someb ody warned me ab out an ice demon, but she was frozen. That hadn't been

about Kori, Richard wasn't female, and there were two left in the room. That was all she had needed to hear- if Victor was

going to agree, she d idn't want to know.

She strove to be ice. She should be pleased, that someone would know this after meeting her once. She had changed

from Steam to Water to Ice- and would be Stone, after just a few months of training, emotions locked in the

subconscious, the mind unsullied. This was a harsh dis cipline, something she did in secret. The Book of Azar was not a

toy, and one of the few expensive things she bothered to own.

When she felt, when she cried, when people began to mean s omething to her- people got hurt. Trigon would not have

emotional garbage (weakness, that's all it is, weakness) in his house. Arella could cry only in secret. Raven could never

let herself get into the habit of showing emotions, as the smallest s lip while at home could be catastrophic. People

always got hurt, or hurt her first. That was jus t how the world worked. People hurt each other.

Looking across the room after she finished meditating, she could see her mirror. Her expression was perfect. Frozen,

unapproachable, and with just a hint of condescension. Reaching under her pillow, she found her Book and turned to

the next chapter. She only had eighteen chapters to go. Eighteen chapters, about ten weeks - soon, she wouldn't feelanything.

.Kori Anders.

Kori Anders was also staring at a mirror. She tried to frown. It didn't look right. She tried her fiercest glare. That's a girl,

Kori. The anim ated rabbits- you know, the little fluffy ones from b ad television program s- will now run in fear. She didn't

like being unhappy. Well, she supposed no one did, but she was supposed to be happy. She was in civilization. She had

a comfortable bed. She didn't have to worry about getting diseases most people didn't know still existed, diseases most

people had never been taught about. She had enough food to eat, every day, and if she wanted mustard, which had been

a rare condiment in places where salt was white gold, she could have mustard.

She had been smiling to hide discomfort since she was eleven. That had not been a good year. Her sister had still been

with her parents, in the latest exotic locale. This time, there was a problem. In the middle of the night, strangers snuck

into the hut her parents had been allocated and led her away. They threatened to kill her and her sister if she m ade a

sound. The weapons at their throats were threat enough. Connie had just started screaming when she was hit over thehead with a blow jus t short of deadly force.

Kori remem bered those weeks. She never had talked about them. For two years after that, she would not talk to her

parents. She s till didn't think they had noticed. They had found Connie, crying and scarred and . . . different. Connie had

never been the same. Once, they had been friends and s isters. Now, Kori was the little sis ter Connie couldn't wait to getaway from and, luck holding, humiliate before the smaller sister was sent on her way. Her parents and the other

rescuers had not found her, twenty feet away- Connie hadn't told them all she knew. Kori had been forced to wait for

someone else to rescue her, the one friend she kept after Connie's ordeal. It was never her ordeal. If it was remembered

that she was there, the fact quickly sl ipped away to think of the one who had Suffered.

Connie had s aid that Kori had been left alone. That was a lie . Kori was uncons cious for three days after It had happened,


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which did not seem a sign that she had gotten off easily. But Connie had a way with words, a merciless talent for twisting

people around her little finger. Kori was m ore than a little awkward around anyone Connie had met. The few times Kori

had gone to conventional school with her s ister, she had left crying. Any friends she made were s tolen away by Connie,ust for spite.

Kori could hear the sounds of a party seeping through the floor. Connie's annual Back to School Bash. That was an

event Connie invited her entire year to, even though every other popular person showed up. Kori wasn't given nearly as

many privileges. Connie's parents (sometimes they were hers, too, but Connie took the spotlight with an ease Kori couldnever duplicate) were trying to ease the mem ory of nightmares that woke Connie screaming at night. Kori was different.

She never screamed. She never made a sound.

She would wake up, face drenched in tears and pillow crus ted with salt, curled on the rug she had placed next to the nicebed that should be welcomed, after so many years away from all such civilization. But- was this civilization? People still

hurt each other, people looked down on anyone who didn't live like them, people didn't like each other.

She laid back on her bed, closing her eyes. She shoved back memories of Them. Instead- she would remem ber Ken.That was the right thing to do. She pulled a faded pos tcard from i ts place of honor beneath her pillow. Connie couldn't

know. She had stolen precious items before, flaunting her skill at manipulating parents. Connie made it seem that Kori

had been withhold ing whatever the item was, something obviously that rightfully belonged with Connie. Kori still wanted

her dream-net back from where it rested in a place of honor at the foot of Connie's bed, an insult to its m aker.

She drifted off to sleep, ignoring the pounding bas s Connie had so helpfully set up just beneath her bed the next floor

down. She dreamed that she wasn't in civilization. She wasn't on a feather bed, luxurious in expense. She was lying

awake on a bum py reed mat, waiting for the sound of a purring lion that meant it was time to go. There was nothing like Africa at night, when her guide could wrestle a lion, if needed, and avoid the haunts of predators . In Africa, when s he

looked at the sky- she could see the stars. Not just the easy marks- Orion's belt, Cassiopeia's lopsided W of a throne,

Cygnus. In a place where all lights were off at night, looking at the sky as i t spread around her- she believed she could

fly, and her closest friend had never discouraged that belief. Why would he? He had felt it, too.

"If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you'd bes t teach it to dance." –George Bernard Shaw.


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*Chapter 3*: Mystery Meat and a Meeting

Chapter Three: Mystery Meat and a Meeting

.Monday.

Richard Grayson did not like Forston High School. He did not like Mondays. He did not like that his uncle always seemed

to be busy, or that his uncle had left money for school lunch. He did not like school lunch, eating school lunch with other

people- or eating alone, not that he had to worry about that. Someone was always there, even if they weren't there for him. They wanted an empty table, which he didn't like even more than eating with people. The less er of two dis likes, he'd

guess.

"Excuse me?"

He also did not like polite voices interrupting his grumblings . He turned his glare- not as infamous as the patented

Rachel Roth death glare, but good enough for his purposes- to the new arrival. "Yes?"

Kori smiled as if his response hadn't been an unenthusiastic syllable. "Has the seat across from you been previously

claimed for occupancy?" Victor had only shrugged when she told him she would be sitting with someone new. When he

saw which direction she was looking, he let her try without a single warning. Who knew? Maybe she'd manage. If

Richard did s end her away, Victor would have a few back stories to show that Kori wasn't alone in that rejection.

Richard took a second to translate, then another to decide. She might be less annoying than the usual crowd, and no

one had asked for a long time. If she was irritating, she could leave. "Knock yourself out."

"Why? If you do not wish for me to be in a clos e proximity to you, you could say so." Kori hid her hurt, but not very well. She

was m uch better at expressing emotions than hiding them, even if she didn't feel completely happy.

Great. Just my luck. The girl doesn't speak Engl ish. "It's an express ion. Go ahead, because I don't care."

Her smile resumed being far too bright, especially for a Monday morning with the smell of some over-processed lunch

product wafting through air stale with high school students. She sat down, set her tray on the table, and began to eat.

He watched the way someone watches an execution, or a particularly gory bit of footage from som e His tory channel

special. She was . . . eating the cafeteria food, and seem ed to be enjoying it. He couldn't look away as she breezed

through the dreaded Monday Mystery Meat on a Stale Bun, Soggy yet Undercooked Corn, Unidentified Fruit Cup (pear,

soggy apple, bleached pineapple, or pale peach? The brown bits just might be bananas- that's all one chemistry student

figured out before giving up in dis gust), and Burnt Brownie a la Heat Lamp.

He had to ask. A one-time deal, he reasoned. He wasn't curious about other people. He didn't care about other people.

Just ask his uncle. This was about cafeteria food. "How can you eat this s tuff?"

She shrugged. "I've eaten worse. I eat whatever's put in front of me. Usually, that's a ll that is available. Some places

aren't rich enough to afford food of even this dubious quality." The corn had looked a little green, but not paying attention

to it helped.

He looked her over for the first time. Nice hair that didn't have a hint of a split end, brand-name clothes worn at the

elbows in the wrong place, scraggly manicured nails . Rich, but not the favorite daughter. That was one of his rare likes -

figuring out som eone by deduction. "That explains why you don't understand American colloquialisms ."

Her smile only became happier. He hadn't thought it was possible. "Yes. I know English from books and limitedconversations with some people who knew the language."

"You know other languages?" The question was in the open before he considered.

"Nothing fluently. I know a little Chinese, some Swahili, a little Seminole, I'm pretty good at Portuguese and Spanish, and

I'm taking French in school to add to the other languages that don't translate well at all. Swahili is only spoken in some

areas of Africa- the tribal languages are all a l ittle bit different, with dialects. I only know enough for basic conversation in

mos t languages."

"So, you're pretty well traveled and can converse with many people, but you don't know the com mon phrases, odd

sayings, and usual insults."

She nodded. "Exactly."


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Richard was about to say something else when the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. He had never been

disappointed to move on before. Was her presence a one-day deal? He wasn't going to ask. He was the loner who had

ust started a conversation near the end of the lunch period. She hadn't tried to start a thing.

He disappeared into the crowd of students. He saw Rachel Roth across the room, reading without any real interest at a

pristinely empty table. He watched as Victor Stone, one of the few jocks to never give someone a hard time (unless they

deserved it- Richard had witness ed Stone very emphatically convincing a bas ketball player that he would not treat his

girlfriend 'that way,' whatever that meant, again. The guy in the jersey had known). He passed by her table, watchingsom e scrawny kid he thought he recognized getting close to the forbidden table.

Richard only shook his head when the guy (what was the name? He remembered the face) tried talking to Rachel. He

couldn't hear what she said, but she never looked away from the book s he couldn't care less about and the kid walkedaway looking a bit crestfallen. Some people never learned. And, as much as he hated to admit it- he hoped Kori wouldn 't

learn from other people how m uch of a wild card he was, and that she would come back.

.Tuesday.

She did. He let her finish her meal before saying anything, sm iling crookedly at the enthusias m that seemed to apply to

everything she did. He tried the Jell-O-mold style meatloaf, gagging down a few bites . Maybe she had a tolerance for

everything usually found dis gusting, including the mustard artificially colored to be bright enough to be offens ively

unnatural she squirted all over her meatloaf. She had a talent for dealing with what most students couldn't stand-

cafeteria food, his company.

"Who is your sis ter?" he asked, the first thing that came to his mind. He remem bered his quick assessment from

yesterday, that she was a younger and not-as-favored sibling.

She kept smiling, but the expression wavered. "Connie Anders, who is also a senior. She is quite popular, in the terms

of your society. Perhaps you know her?"

Most people wouldn't have seen through Kori's act, obviously a continuing effort. Richard had been keeping up h is actsince he was seven. "I thought so. Not a nice girl."

Kori blinked, her only respons e to the statement she had needed to hear for seven-odd years. "Really? You truly believe

so?"

"Really. You're new here, right?"

"Yes."

"Now, I usually wouldn't do this , but I'll tell you who's nice and who's not. I'll even tell the truth."

"That would be joyous, friend Richard."

To his credit, he didn't cringe. He collected himself. She wouldn't take his usual comments well, and he d idn't want to

make her cry. This was an odd thought, but she wasn't on some other agenda. Maybe he could us e a friend, if only to

shut his uncle up.

"First things , Kori." He'd ignore 'joyous' and 'friend Richard' for now. Maybe she'd grow out of it, maybe he'd just get used

to it. "If you're looking for friends in the area- where do you live?"

"Maple Court."

"If you're into athletics, Victor Stone's a good guy."

Kori interrupted. "I know him. I was si tting with him at lunch until this week, but he and Garfield prefer to discuss video

games. Besides, I wanted to sit over here."

He saved that comment, not letting any sign escape that he had wanted to hear that for a long time. No one had wantedto sit with him s ince- he couldn't remember a time someone had, actually. "Did you see him? He just s aved the sm all

guy's life."

"What do you mean? All he has done is confiscated a straw and little bits of paper. Why should shooting the wads of spitcause him mortal bodily harm?"

Richard took a mom ent to translate- he'd definitely need to adapt to her way of speaking, if she was this set in speaking

with odd syntax. "Because the target apparent is Rachel Roth, and Garfield Logan doesn't want to die."


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"Perhaps she also wis hes for a friend."

"No. She doesn't. She's the school's res ident Ice Queen."

"Just like you're the juvenile delinquent who always wants to be alone?"

How could a girl that naïve know what mos t people never figured out? "No, nothing like that."

She picked up her tray. "I'll sit with you tomorrow," she prom ised, carrying it away laden only with a slice of pie of som e

unknown origin. Probable theories ranged from m oon rocks, for the crust, to subterranean lava for the filling, cooled intoflakes. Others were more pragmatic, saying the school bought food the hospital chucked out.

Richard only watched as she crossed the cafeteria, politely asking to get through crowded areas when most people

would have shoved. She had a small audience of aware people, increasing as she drew closer to Rachel. Everyone

remem bered the last girl who had sat there. No guy had dared after the warning tales from her freshman year. By thetime Kori took a seat and took up a spork, she had a good portion of the crowded room looking pas t her. Everyone was

waiting for Rachel's reaction.

Rachel closed her book, sliding a few inches of black satin ribbon between the pages s he had s topped reading. Shestared at Kori, a wordless accusation, and met completely guileless eyes. Remembering all training in finding deceit

and hidden truths, Rachel tried to find some flaw. She only saw . . . Kori.

Rachel didn't say a word. She simply re-opened her book and began reading, occasionally sipping from a flimsy paper cup. Everyone knew Rachel Roth drank herbal tea- no one had ever seen her eat, at school or otherwise, jus t like

everyone knew that the bathroom on the second floor, next to the janitor's closet, was reserved for sm okers. A

commonplace knowledge of her likes and dislikes didn't help her gain friends, but it kept people away. The student body

let out a collective s igh- partly relieved for the sake of the lucky sap, mos tly disappointed for the lack of a scene.

Rachel didn't smile, but Victor did. The rate this was going, they just might have a two-on-two next Saturday. Maybe, jus t

maybe, Garfield's foolish dream of seeing Rachel smile might not be completely unreachable. That, or Gar was just

crazy. The latter was probable, but five minutes ago he would have called Rachel's chances of a tablemate zero.

.Wednesday.

Rachel didn't know how it had happened. She had accepted Kori, guessing the girl was after some peace. Rachel's

table was quiet, and the surrounding tables usually didn't get too loud. She hadn't guessed Kori would return the next

day, Richard Grayson in tow, or that she would spend twenty-seven minutes listening to Kori draw Richard out of his

shell. It was interesting, to say the leas t. That could be the mos t social interaction she'd had in years, and Kori was kind

enough to not involve her hos t.

Victor met her after lunch that day. Outside of banter during soccer, they had always kept their dis tance. Rachel wasn't

looking for anything outside of that, Victor was more than willing to respect her wishes . Playing agains t her was the bes t

practice he got, and he knew she needed someone. "Rachel," he began simply, testing the waters.

"Victor." He'd never harass ed her, or asked why she as ked so cold ly in school but would talk to him some Saturdays.

She paused at the doors of the cafeteria, leaning against a beige wall. She'd give him a chance.

"How much bodily harm would you inflict if I sat at your table Friday? I'll let you have just Kori and Richard tomorrow."

"Not much. Who else would I play soccer with, if I broke you?"

Victor kept a sm ile back, but mem orized the look. Her eyes smiled, just a li ttle, like they did in a good gam e. "Gar's

coming, too. The little guy." He waited. He wouldn't push her.

She considered. "Trial period. Four other people should be more than enough."

"Thanks, Rachel. I'll try to keep him in line."

"You do that." That look in her eyes was gone like it had never happened, but Victor remembered.

.Thursday.

Victor wasn't in school. He knew he wouldn't be. Today was The Anniversary, the fifth year after The Accident hadhappened. This meant that he would not be having a pleasant day. Instead of just dragging himself through the usual

classes, with breaks where he could talk to friends, he would be dragging himself through an entire day of Derek.

His m other was there. This was the one day a year he was guaranteed to see her. Christmas? She could be


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researching. Easter? She could be at a conference. Summer? There were less distractions in her lab. She would stop in

on random days, sometimes , just to see her son. He could see mental meas uring tapes whipping around him, deciding

he was a pretty good kid . . . but Derek had been better. Forget the pas t tense- her perfect oldest son was better.

He chose his outfit carefully. Dressy, but not formal enough that he was trying to outdo his brother. Casual, but not

laidback enough that he was disrespecting his brother. Well, he didn't have to worry about hair. Having none of it meant

that was easy. After The Accident, he had been pretty badly scarred over enough of the scalp that only a few new

procedures with dye left him from having a very interesting pattern of pink scars all across his head. As it was , hewouldn't be experimenting with hair, and would have to accept bald as close enough to beautiful.

Long pants, of course. He never wore shorts, not even for soccer. He was the one player allowed out of the standard

uniform, a direct exemption from the comm iss ioner for a special cas e. Only a few people knew why. For everyone else,they could just assume that he was special. That was the right word, all right. He chose from a row of identical dress

slacks, all pressed and ready for the anniversary.

The shirt didn't have to be long-sleeved, but it would send the right message. Now for a color- red was too much likeblood, blue was the color of the car, Derek had been wearing whi te, and- gray would be perfect. Black was too much in

mourning (as he had learned last year), but gray should be safe. Dark socks, dress shoes- tie or no tie? After

considering, he chose a darker gray number with thin maroon stripes.

Now, the perfect express ion. Somber, but not too grieving. There. Now, to meet the parents. There wouldn't be anysoccer or video games today, with his mother clinging all over him. He could see the cars lined up outside his house,

the one gathering that his father hosted. He had seen smaller amounts of cars lined up for Connie's yearly party, one he

never attended despite annual invitations. He was the only captain of a sport, varsity or otherwise, to never make anappearance.

He descended the stairs into a silent throng of people. His father found him quickly, patting his back awkwardly. Victor

could swear he had mouthed "good luck." Next, the yearly tradition. His mother would cry into his shirt, straighten his tie,

wail about how his brother should be here- something was wrong. His m other was sm iling, and trying not to, as a man

Victor recognized whispered something he did not want to hear. That was her research partner- her new research

partner, after his parents split.

He saw a very prominent ring on the hand his mother waved in front of his face. It was gold, with a very eye-catching and

very large diamond. He looked away from his mother and her beaming new husband, catching his father's reaction.

There wasn't any.

"Isn 't this wonderful, honey? Dennis already said that you'll be the bes t man. He doesn't have much of a family, so you

can bring some friends to be grooms men and bridesmaids and the like. My sister's matron of honor, so you can just findhowever many friends you like." She was smil ing, the happiest he had seen her since that morning five years ago, when

Derek passed his driving test with flying colors.

"Yeah, m om." Okay, this is awkward. No sob -fest? Wait- spoke to soon. His mother's eyes filled with tears. This time,

however, she didn't launch herself at Victor, or her ex-husband. This time, she latched onto Dennis , who looked far too

natural murm uring into her ear. He left to greet a few scattered uncles and aunts, and many of his parents' research

colleagues, just late enough to hear her wish that Derek could be there.

He didn't say it. He didn't say that if Derek was alive, this collection of uncomfortable adults in formal clothing wouldn't be

happening. He didn't say that if Derek was still around, Victor would be completely invisible, that the Forston Falcons

would have had the first freshm an (and then sophomore) first-string varsity football player for two more years. If Derek

was alive, the basketball team would have a record-setting scorer for four years. If Derek was alive, there would have

been a different valedictorian. If Derek were alive, he would be dominating the attention in the house from some college,

one of many that sent agents to recruit him all through his senior year. A particularly ambitious college representativehad been the one to court promis es of paying insurance on the nice little car that Derek had chosen for his s ixteenthbirthday.

If Derek were alive, Victor would s till have parents, when they would occasionally make time for their second son. Before

the accident, research had meant less than family. Now, escaping reality for a precious few minutes was more importantthan hard reminders of the past. Victor, as he had been tearfully praised by his mother, was an "easy child." This m eant

that, if left to his own devices, laws wouldn't be broken, the house would remain intact, and there would be no

consequences to plan. He was easy to ignore.

He left the gathering early, for the first time. He had always stayed until the bitter end. But this year, he wouldn't s tand it.His parents had m oved on. So could he. His brother had crashed the brand-new Mustang convertible into the gate that


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"Yeah, me 'n Rachel'll take you all!" Gar taunted.

"No." Rachel finished her tea and gathered her s tack of textbooks. "Kori and I will be a team." Victor had enough

experience to counter Rachel's speed, and Robin moved sometimes like he had training to his credit.

"Are you sure?" Richard asked. "I mean, teams should be fair."

"At two, then." Rachel left, depos iting a crumpled cup into the trash.

Gar watched her, putting his trash into a brown paper bag. Victor caught a glance of leftover-

"Tofu," Gar supplied helpfully at the dis gusted look on Victor's face. "Want some?"

Victor gagged. "I had a roast beef sandwich, man, and I'm not about to lose it. You and your fake food can keep far away

from me."

Gar shrugged. "Your loss. Who knows, maybe it'll help me keep up with Kori tomorrow." He exchanged smi les with Kori

and Victor. Richard frowned.

"So, who's keeping up with Rachel?"

"We'll see tomorrow," Victor promised.


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*Chapter 4*: Grass, A Pizzeria, and Tofu

Let's see- no real need for an author's note, I'm pretty sure I finally have all names typed correctly (don't worry, it'll get

more confusing, name-wise, very quick ly), but I'll ramble anyway. But not for long- enjoy. Thanks for this chapter goes to

Luke, my lab partner for AP Biology, who provided the horrib le jokes. That will b e his contribution to the story- dr.evil99

remains chief partner in crime for getting characters into themselves. But still, a round of applause for Luke! (The sound

of crickets and a few apple-shiners clapping is heard.)Okay, fine. Just read the story, then.

Chapter Four: Green Grass, A Pink Pizzeria, and Tofu Spaghetti

"Are we sure she's hum an?" Richard asked, breathing heavily and trying not to show it. He had been playing for an hour

and a half. He was used to physical activity- but he was bes t at lifting weights, fighting, bracing agains t recoil- not steadily

running and dodging and trying to steal an object roughly the size of his head, using only his feet.

Kori laughed. "No." She watched- Rachel was facing Victor and Garfield as Richard waited for circulation to return to his

foot, and Kori was catching her breath. A very persuasive kick had convinced him to relinquish the ball, and s top

comments he had thought inaudible.

Rachel dodged Gar's latest attempt to kick the ball away. He looked ready to drop, and was definitely having trouble

breathing. She kicked the hall, not waiting for it to ricochet from the s hed door before dropping flat onto her back, hands

behind her neck as she s tared nonchalantly at the sky.

Victor joined her, taking up a li ttle more space. This was their sign for I'm-ready-to-breathe, usually only used after a fewhours. She was fine. Gar was not. He punched Gar's arm when a third person joined the group, heads at the center of a

lopsided arrangem ent of teenagers. "You can say you're tired, grass stain. You look pretty green."

"That's jus t the lawn," Gar retorted. "I mean, this is probably a huge achievement in the color green, and we're ripping at it

with cleats."

Kori was next, laughing as she kicked well-worn soccer shoes with red clay embedded around the cleats into the air.

"That's what lawns are meant for, are they not? In Mexico, we played wherever there was n't too much traffic."

"Not at my house," Richard grumbled, keeping a dis tance. "It's for decoration and to be harped at about mowing the

stuff."

"So, Richard, still think kicking like a girl is an insult worthy of bestowing on Garfield?" Rachel asked, unable to convey

false innocence in a monotone despite her best efforts. Still, the ques tion lent itself a certain inflection.

"That hurt, Rachel. Do you have lead in that show or something?"

"No. The one thing my father has given me is ten years of les sons in kickboxing, running, and strength training."

"Do you even have a weakness?" Gar asked, doubting she could.

"Yes."

Kori was the one to move away from that topic, bringing up the possib ility of pizza. Rachel was gone before the ques tion

was finished, her quota of company more than met for the day. Tomorrow, she'd go for a proper run. She hadn't done thatin a while. Gar refused offers of som eone else paying for him, saying he didn't eat pizza.

.Pizza- Need I Say Anything Else?.

Kori, Richard, and Victor ended up at Angelina's Pizzerina, a p lace Kori literally dragged Victor and Richard in to. Therhyming nam e was enough to make them avoid the place, but Kori insis ted and could be just as bull-headed asRichard, when she felt the need. Victor wisely decided to not get involved, and jus t ended up following the quarreling pair.

The outside of the small establishment was simple, a red-brick front with cheerful curtains in the windows faded to white

by sunlight. Thefluorescent sign spelled out the name in curling pink letters, forming a border for a pizza sketched in

neon lighting.

Once seated, the boys began to like the idea- the scent of pizza was strong, even if the décor was a bit pink for their

tastes. Richard shi fted uncomfortably on a frilled s eat while Victor gave a skeptical look to the wallpaper border of the

place, whimsical and fantastical creatures all cavorting happi ly. He had lived with his father for a few years with no

maternal presence, and she had never been into overdosing on pink.


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Kori smiled as she watched their conversation suddenly halt when a waitress (uniformed, of course, in the trademark

pink of the Pizzerina) brought a large meat-lover's pie to their table. They tore into the pizza, dripping home-grown tomato

sauce onto provided pink-rimmed napkins. When it was gone, she had a s imple ques tion she already knew the answer to. "Verdict?"

"Too good for words ," they said at the same time, surprised to be thinking al ike.

"I never thought I'd really have friends here- I've never fit in," Kori confessed.

Vic snorted. "And I do? We're in the middle of a rather snooty bit of suburbia, where most ances try is blue-blooded. Myparents made money off some cutting-edge research. Until I was three, we lived in an apartment."

Richard tried his impass ivity. "My uncle doesn't know how to deal with kids. He's your typical white-collar worker, with the

entire basem ent as an office I'm not allowed near, like I'd want to peek at old tax records he s igned a confidentiality

agreement on."

"Richard? Victor? The man next in line at the cash regis ter has a gun in his back pocket," Kori whispered urgently,

interrupting a fledging conversation, face perfectly contrasting her words . She didn't want to give away the fact that she

could eas ily recognize a gun, even if she'd never had the displeasure of touching one. There was no need to alert the

would-be robber.

Victor picked up the bill, s idling over to the line. Maybe it was the spur of the mom ent, maybe he'd been ready. The instant

the man growled the us ual ultimatum at a wide-eyed cashier, Victor performed a neat punch to a very sensi tive nerve

point. The man wouldn't be getting up for an hour at the least. He insis ted on paying, but did accept an offer of free pizza

for the next time when Angelina prodded. Maybe Garfield would show up, if he was n't on anyone els e's bill.

Richard and Kori didn't as much as blink as they left. "You know," Victor said, only half joking, "the hero gig isn 't so bad-

nice benefits for a part-time job."

.Sunday.

She had been out for a run, a way to clear her head- it was Sunday, and this was the closes t to church she came. There

was nothing for herto worry about, with her defense classes . She was very talented at staring down the attempted

muggers, rapists, and con m en so common outside the rich part of town, and taking care of those not smart enough to

back away. Quickly. There were three zones in Forston, population m ostly uncounted in the once-a-decade Census.

There was the rich neighborhood, kept immaculate by the hired workers neces sary for Forest Gates to survive. There

was the not-that-rich scattering of houses on the outskirts of the gated community, near the school just inside the large

gate. Then, there was the rest of the town, dingy and grey and depres sing.

The rest of the town was controlled by sm all gangs rivaling for better consideration from the leader. There was one man

who controlled all gangs, the local organized crime, and all petty thieves through fear, dues, and a quick staff force.

Trigon, the terror of all unfortunate enough to know of him . He never showed his face in public. All work was left to his

second-in-command, a man known only as Slade.

The thoughts were not those of an average girl, especially the average well-dressed girl with professional shoes made

to lessen stress to feet while running. She carried a prototype model of electronic progress , playing favored songs at the

perfect volume. Except for interesting shades in her hair and eyes, she could have been any average teenage gi rl. Of

course, Rachel Roth was not the average teenage girl. She had few ways to relieve stress, and soccer was only fun withan opponent. It never occurred to her to visit Victor on a Sunday.

Rachel glanced at her pedom eter, one that doubled as a clock. She'd been running for an hour, and had covered a little

over nine miles . The track coaches kept press uring her to join the team. That wasn't her concern. She had been dril led inrunning, both endurance and sprints, s ince just before she could walk. This was as eas y as breathing, but she could

use a water break. It was August, and sticky heat invaded the bes t of running shirts. Rachel was n't a fan of the jus t-a-

sports-bra look, to the disappointment of the many to sneak glances at her as she ran by. Sometimes, the risks of

outright ogling were greater than the benefits.

She stopped at a run-down pharmacy and grocery store. She had been here before to pick up a sealed bottle of water-

she wouldn't trust them for anything else. She made her way to the back corner where water was displayed on dusty

shelves, in the hope a passing shopper would find som e needed item on the way to basic necessities. She was about

to pass a noisy alcove when she saw a familiar figure in the bottle-return area of the store, a cramped place with room

only for the three classic m achines labeled Cans , Plastic, and Glass .

Rachel had never noticed people returning such things before. She wasn't ignorant. She knew that all drinks sold in

bottles or cans came with a deposit in the purchase price, something like five or ten cents a bottle- she never had


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checked. That was the American government's effort to encourage recycling, and profit off those who didn 't. Rachel had

never been concerned with pocket change. Why should she, when her little-used allowance was higher than the average

family's income?

She saw him politely asking the sullen attendant to fix the machine. From the resigned look on her acquaintance's face,

this was a comm on problem. Can machines frequently jammed, or filled with bottles. Until the problem was solved,

Garfield would have to wait. Obviously, he had been waiting awhile. The machine was letting out a repetitive and plaintive

beep, whining that it was jam med. The problem was undoubtedly easy to fix. The worker was undoubtedly not about toconcern hims elf with a ragged customer, though it seemed to be a little more personal from a self-satisfied sneer.

"Excuse m e," Rachel said politely to the worker. She looked at the plas tic name badge pinned haphazardly to a very

yellow s hirt. Dirt smudged over the illegible nam e. "I was wondering if you'd be fixing that machine for my friend. After all,it is your job."

The man blanched at the simple monotone. "Yes m a'am, of course." He said it too quickly, the sight of her making him

act oddly. "I'll get to it right away." Rachel walked away before Gar could say a word, returning with her des ired bottle of water. She returned after the machine was working properly.

"Thanks," Gar told her, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he had just watched an old rival crumple under the calm

look of someone he barely knew, and was now putting cans into the machine. "That guy doesn't like me- my foster mom

told the police he was getting a bit too friendly with a previous foster child of hers."

Rachel watched him. Well, she might as well be polite. "Want me to do the plastic?" He nodded, and she accepted his

ass ent. It looked sim ple enough, by faded pictures and the instructions on a cracked digital read-out. Insert bottlebottom-first, wait for lit arrows on the doorway over the chute to turn green, and then repeat until finished. When done,press the green button for a receipt. Not rocket science, though the machine was complex enough to do something other

than count bottles. "He looks like he needs a talking-to about being polite. I doubt he'll be too much trouble." There was

some other meaning behind her near-toneless words, but she skipped over it quickly.

He didn't dwell on it. "So, what brings you all the way over here?" He tried and failed to ignore her s tate-of-the-art clothes,

from s hoes to the micro-earphones s till in place.

"I was running. You come to this grocery often?" She hated smal l-talk. Well, she could leave whenever. It wouldn't hurt

her to be polite- too badly, at least.

"Whenever my foster mom needs s omething. Shelia and Harry- that's m y foster parents nam es, when they don't respond

to mom or dad, don't have much time for errands. I'm picking up Harry's pil ls from the pharmacy, my refills, and Shelia

needed me to pick up a few things for her." He watched her reaction even as he kept feeding cans into the machine.Some were more than a little dented and worn, obviously found on the street.

Rachel blinked, her only respons e. Gar was telling her this why? No one usually confided in her. Most people dropped

her as a friend soon, saying that she was cold, morbid, and untrusting. This was usually because she didn't show

emotion, didn't talk about her parents , and never let anyone over to her house. Victor was an exception, but he was justused to her, more than likely. She was convinced the rest of the tablemates would be m oving on within a week or two.

She couldn't think of something to say. Her usual cutting sarcasm would be rude, when he was only being sociable. She

finished her bottles as he put glass through the third machine, and handed him the receipt. The slip of paper wasalready flaked with dirt, a simple thing with just a barcode and $1.05 printed on it.

He didn't look at all embarrassed by his s hopping. He found a tube of hemorrhoid cream, a few bottles of vitamins , a vial

of nasty-looking prescription medication, two bottles with his name in blurred print and a gallon of milk. She watched,curious. It was like observing some new process, and the grubby grocery list he consulted was a paltry Rosetta stone,

her way to figure out how other people lived.

Gar paid at the register. Under Rachel's careful watch, the same disgruntled employee didn't even try to give Garfield the

usual hassle. Gar didn't watch as s he used a very large bill for a very sm all bottle of water, she didn't watch as hecounted out coins she would throw away from an old-fashioned clasp wallet that didn't belong to him, unless he liked

pink hydrangeas on accessories. Somehow, she doubted it.

Before Rachel could remember who she was (Rachel Roth, ice queen, known for shooting people down and scaring theexcrement out of any and all people, especia lly peers and teachers), he had invited her to visi t. He hurriedly explained

that it wasn't much, that there wouldn't be much to do, and that he didn't want to force her into anything she didn't want to

do. Rachel tried to remember the last time anyone had as ked her over to their house. She had been s ix, and playing

soccer at the park- she and Victor had continued their game at his house. She hadn't needed to tell anyone. She had


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been wandering the neighborhood alone since she was four. Against all better judgment, Rachel accepted Gar's offer.

She carried one of his bags. He tried, out of some odd chivalry, to carry both and the walle t. She took the heavier bag

from his hands, discovering it was the bulkier of the two when she heard the slosh of the gallon of milk. The weight was

more than she was used to carrying. The housekeeper did all s hopping at her home, as well as putting meals together,

cleaning, taking mes sages, organizing meetings for businessmen, and making sure bills were paid on time.

Rachel was ready to hand off the bag and leave. This wasn't right. She didn't belong in this little neighborhood, where the

dogs' ribs showed through scraggly hair and the cats looked m ore than a little feral. The children they past were hollow-

eyed, and too many didn't seem to own shoes. Hypodermic syringes littered the curbside, and one faded old user wasrolling back his sleeve as they passed. It was a completely different world than sunny Forest Gates, where all gras s was

kept trimmed to precisely two-and-seven-tenths inches, judged the optimum height for appearance, never performance.

But- she'd come this far. She ran through these neighborhoods for the change in s cenery, after all, to go somewhere

where her surroundings weren't perfect, and where speed m attered more than perfect form and waving to all neighbors

to keep up the guise that all res idents of the richest section of town were happy. So, she s tuck it out and made it to thefront door of his apartment, up the concrete steps covered in layers of crude graffiti barely visible beneath a no-nons ense

coat of whitewash faded by time and footsteps. He twisted the handle and kicked a worn s pot in the paint at the same

time, popping the door open with practiced ease.

Rachel was us ed to imm aculate homes, peace, quiet, and housekeepers greeting guests at the door, snooty or welcoming or somewhere in between. She was not used to two babies s creaming through the thin wall that separated

one room from the neighbor's house, a very worn-out older man sprawled on the couch snoring from behind a book that

was res ting on his nos e, and the phone ringing shrilly with no one answering it.

Gar was us ed to the worn old place. He'd lived there for just two months, but was already attached to the place. Money

was tight, but the foster parents were looking to help s omeone known for being a difficult case, not the extra check in the

mai lbox. Besides, being an only child wasn't too bad. His caseworker had promised that he was there for the full year,

that these fosters wouldn't shunt him away after a week or three. Shelia and Harry were long-term foster parents, and

would s ee him off to college. He had the grades for it, after all, even if the state wouldn't pay anything but a fraction. "Right

through here, Rachel- the groceries can jus t go in the kitchen. I'm back, Harry," he called to the man on the couch. Harry's

snores didn't alter, but a hand waved sleepily.

A hassled woman seemed to come out of nowhere to wrap h im in a hug, trailing a s piral ing phone cord connected to the

kitchen wall. "Gar, sweetie, thank heavens you're back early- I guess that Adonis boy didn't give you a hard time today.

Good- you have enough to deal with without that slob. They need me at the hospital- Kathy from the oncology wing jus t

said that your test results are in, and I need to talk to her before I start my shift." She was the slightest bit overweight, and

had a generous amount of gray hairs at her temples. She checked her watch, and then noticed Rachel, who was stillholding groceries against her still-clean running tank top.

"Oh, you brought home a friend? I'm s orry I can't talk- maybe next time. Gar, you know where medicines go, and the

spaghetti noodles just need another minute. The sauce is ready- just turn the heat off after everyone's had s ome." She

found keys on the labeled hook. "See you after my shift, Gar, Harry, and-" she lis tened as Garfield supplied a name-

"Miss Rachel. Charmed, really, but I can't be late."

She waded through the mes s of newspapers s trewn about the front room, blew her husband a kiss, and a minute later,

the rumbling of an old car in desperate need of a muffler could be heard roaring down the street. Gar took her grocery

bag, for the first time looking a little awkward as he considered what his small family would look like to others. He was

used to such a place, and had seen worse. She hadn't.

He set the table with mismatched and chipped plates, silverware that was mostly intact, and scratched plastic cups.

Rachel's home had elegant china, real silver cutlery, and matched elaborate glasses kept gleaming by their housekeeper. Gar dished out food like an old pro. Before Rachel knew what he was doing, he had a plate portioned outfor her.

"Take a seat- Shelia would kill me, not feeding a guest. She's up for promotion at the hospital. Harry's starting a new job

as a m echanic tomorrow, after just two months of being laid off- that's why we have so m any newspapers lying around,but they'll all be gone tomorrow. Besides, how else can I impress you with my cooking skills?" He grinned, the strange

sm ile that had puzzled her two weeks ago (had it been that long already?). He skipped over anything that could be found

embarrass ing, passing by the topics before she could register them. "I made the sauce earlier- well, made som e of it."

"Fine." This was an experiment, to see if a cold Goth could fit in a normal life. She didn't think it was possib le, but maybeit was. She wouldn't be changing hers elf. That would void the entire idea, the concept that she could fit in.


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The sm ile returned. "Shelia and Harry eat vegan- I do, too. I try to be vegetarian, at least, but many fosters don't like the

extra trouble. You can get used to tofu. This kind of spaghetti sauce tastes like it has meat in it, and is as natural as tofu

can get."

"Key words, Gar. Key words." Tofu was not a natural s ubstitute for meat. Rachel watched Gar greet his foster-father. He

might as well be a father, the way the two hugged casually. He saw her, but waited until he was s itting at the table with a

meal in front of him while Gar poured the milk.

"And jus t who is this , Garfield?" Harry asked. Awake, he looked younger, and the wrinkles in his hands less defined.

"I'm Rachel. Rachel Roth," she said, a little awkwardly. People usually gave her odd looks for her unique hair color. She

didn't get it either, but she wouldn't put experimental treatments on an infant past her father. She offered a hand.

He shook it with a gus to that unnerved her before she realized that he meant it. "Glad to meet you, Rachel. You're the first

person Gar's brought here, and you'll have to come back if we don't scare you too much. Shelia will want to meet you."

Rachel had no idea what to say. If they didn't scare her? The man hadn't even given her hair a second look, or tried to

see hints of nonexistent contacts in her eyes. Besides at lunch tables where she had always sat alone or fancy dinners

where only her father talked, she usually ate alone at the kitchen counter. What was one s upposed to talk about over

spaghetti?

Apparently, whatever came to mind was the topic for the day. Harry and Garfield (she had never heard of anyone else

always using his full name) chatted happily, discussing everything from mechanics to school to the pharmacy to

t

calliopemused - dance of the skeletons

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