《Iris》


 Blue – 1

    There¡¯s an old saying in North Carolina:


    ¡°There are poor men, there are rich men, and there are men who graduated from Bensen University.¡±


    Established in 1876 by Reynold Bensen, a strict well to


    do Methodist and fabulously wealthy tobacco baron, the University was a showcase of the best and brightest the South had to offer. Businessmen, lawyers, politicians, the southern American college was never lacking for prestige, wealth, and influence.


    Beyond the obvious academic edge Bensen granted those fortunate enough to attend, the southern school was just plain gorgeous over all. Shunning the Neo-Geothic style of the schools up north, Bensen University was a symphony of red bricks and green


    grass. The Georgian Architecture of the school dominated the entirety of the campus, from Founder¡¯s Hall to the new freshmen dorms. No matter where one went, he or she would be greeted by whiteroofs, red bricks, and sturdy wooden doors.


    Even the local fast food restaurants were not spared the


    tell-tale style; they either had to adhere to Bensen¡¯s University¡¯s strict d¨¦cor policy or move to another school. Bensen University had something to offer for everyone: For those who sculpted, painted, and designed there was a multimillion dollar arts complex, for those who preferred more intellectual pursuits there was an eight floor library complete with a section devoted to books so rare and well kept they could not even be checked out, and nearly every southern athlete knew that Bensen University was


    the place to hone their considerable physical abilities.


    It was hardly surprising, then, that Danielle accepted almost immediately when the head track coach of the school offered her a spot on the team.


    She remembered how hot her heart had felt when Mr. Kurt had informed her that the Methodist Marathoners could use her on their mid-distance relay team. The fire in her chest ignited like her blood was made of gasoline. She had been resigned to attending the local community college.


    Danielle was not a dumb girl; far from it, but she did tend to put priority on running over her academics. Biology, Statistics, and European History were certainly interesting fields of study, they just did not make Danielle feel as alive as she did when she sprinted mid-distance.


    In the autumn months leading up to the head coach¡¯s generous offer, Danielle nearly tore herself apart with stress over the college process.


    Essays were written, then critiqued, then re-written, resumes were combed over and optimized, and many of Danielle¡¯s friends who graciously volunteered help and who had never managed to get above a C in Algebra suddenly developed a knack for probability and statistics unknown to even the best logician. Her high school guidance counselor had used words such as ¡°maybe¡±, ¡°unlikely¡±, and ¡°hopefully¡± in regards to the prospects of her getting accepted to schools she assumed were givens, and the bespectacled man who some called Lead Academic Adviser could only give Danielle a sad shake


    of his head when she inquired him about her chances of getting into Bensen.


    ¡°It probably won¡¯t happen¡±, the man mumbled with a sympathetic bow of his head ¡°but if you really want to go you might as well apply.¡± Indeed, the days before her ticket to academic and athletic paradise were both troublesome and taxing.


    At that time, there was but a flicker of light in her chest, a lingering hope


    that remained despite everyone, herself included, being resigned to the inevitability that she would be attending Nassau Community College, a college located across the street from her high school. It was a childish and immature hope, that despite her substandard grades she¡¯d be able to go to the school of her dreams, and she knew that the spark of light in her heart would probably lead her to more misery


    than she would experience if she extinguished the spark with the icy waters of reality.


    Yet here she stood a month into her freshmen year of college; an outlier in a sea of nearly insurmountable odds and a star performer of the Bensen Methodist Marathoners. She had not merely adapted to the College lifestyle, she had thrived. Today was a Friday, which meant the track team had practice from five in the


    afternoon till ten in the evening.


    These longer practices had become routine to Danielle, and she had


    come to enjoy them despite their exhausting nature. The coach had an appointment with the dentists at ten forty five , which meant that tonight Danielle and her teammates would be checking out for the


    evening a half an hour early.


    Usually Danielle would accompany her allies to Bensen¡¯s excellent


    refractory for a post practice meal, but she had made a decision three days prior to stick to a strict diet in order to build up more energy and endurance. The diet she was on focused on having a moderate breakfast, a large lunch, and a smaller dinner, and Bensen¡¯s Refractory had a reputation for giving the diners who went there more calories than they bargained for. Danielle did not lack confidence in her


    self-control, but her father had always insisted that a locked door prevented temptation far more than a wide open door ever could. It was that fear of deviating from her strict dietary schedule that led to her passing on having dinner with her Methodist Marathoners.


    True, there was a blues concert hosted by Pi Kappa Sig that evening, and true, Danielle had bought a ticket to attend the show, but she would never dream of leaving her teammates to dry for such a silly thing. No, Danielle was attending the concert strictly out of a desire to keep herself in shape, the presence of Lucas Hoffman, his cute little French


    beret, and his gorgeously toned abdominal muscles was merely a happy coincidence.


    Suddenly, her backpack buzzed. Danielle unzipped the small middle pocket, stuck her left hand in, and produced her cell phone. The phone¡¯s screen displayed one word: "Help."


    Danielle sighed, she had a suspicion that both dinner and the concert would be off the table tonight. One of the upper classmen noticed that Danielle wasn¡¯t walking towards the refractory with the group. ¡°Are you heading back to Porter, Dany?¡± she asked.


    Danielle bit her lip and replied. ¡°Yes, I am. Something silly has just come up.¡±


    The upperclassman winced. ¡®Ah, Emily¡¯s having some trouble again?¡±


    Danielle slowly nodded her head. ¡°Don¡¯t worry Trish, it¡¯s probably nothing major. I¡¯ll pop over there real quick and then meet the rest of you guys tomorrow for sprints.¡±


    The Bensen Athletic Center was located fairly far away from Danielle¡¯s dorm, roughly two miles away if she were to follow the grassy trail that led to the freshmen campus by way of the magnolia woods. Long distances had never really deterred runners in the past, however, and Danielle was one of the best. Even with her body shot from the copious amount of work, she had forced herself to do at practice, Danielle managed a respectable pace and cleared a mile and a half of her journey in a little under fifteen minutes.


    It was then a rare spectacle occurred: Danielle decided to walk. Her decision wasn¡¯t one made out of exhaustion (though she WAS exhausted), nor was her choice made out of boredom (though she HAD seen more exciting evenings.) She had reached a


    clearing in the woods and was overcome by an urge to simply take in her surroundings and look at the


    stars.


    One notable aspect of attending Bensen University was its considerable distance from any major city. Reynold Bensen had decided to build the University on one of his underperforming tobacco fields, and one result of that fateful decision was the nearest gas station being fifteen miles away from the school grounds. The students didn¡¯t particularly mind this aspect of the school, as Bensen University was


    a world in and of itself. Though the school had a rich Methodist heritage which could still be seen even to this day, Bensen had not been immune to society¡¯s ever changing standards.


    The school, which once threatened expulsion for dancing, was now the go to place for raves, blackout parties, and boasted ten


    fraternities and seven sororities. While Danielle appreciated the great nightlife(her mother was concerned that perhaps she appreciated the nightlife a bit TOO much), she mainly enjoyed the isolation.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.Bensen University had to offer due to the gorgeous skyscape that one could see in the evening. In more populated areas of North Carolina, and indeed most of the country, many stars were rendered invisible by the light pollution that came with tall buildings and suburban sprawls.


    This was not the case at Bensen University. As Danielle slowed her pace in the clearing, countless sparks of light were reflected in her hazel eyes. The fire in her heart burnt brighter and more intense than ever before.


    ¡°I¡¯m here.¡±


    Danielle softly whispered, ¡°I¡¯ve finally made it.¡±


    She had beaten the odds in getting to school, and she would be able to beat the odds again and again so long as she was here, a freshman, a star, at Bensen University. Fifteen feet behind her, near the entrance of the clearing Danielle had recently ran through, a twig suddenly snapped. Danielle¡¯s heart jumped, she turned around almost instantly. There was nothing in front of her but a broken twig, some magnolia trees, and the grassy path.


    Danielle began to laugh nervously. ¡°Haha, oh man, I shouldn¡¯t psyche myself


    out so much.¡±


    As a runner whose event was started by a gunshot, Danielle was more prone to sensing


    and reacting to sudden noises than a typical college student. More than a decade of experience had taught her to violently react at the any sudden sound. She had spent longer in the clearing staring at the stars than she had intended to. Her little shock had helped her regain focus, and she resumed her speedy pace, running out of the clearing and northwards towards the Freshmen Residence halls. Bensen


    University had a reputation for fairly lavish student living facilities, and with Danielle¡¯s dorm this was especially the case.


    She lived in Porter¡¯s Residence Hall, the newest freshmen dorm on campus. It was


    reserved for honor students, All State musicians, artists, and student athletes. Bensen valued the strength of diversity, so the institution made an official school policy to avoid pairing up students with similar interests. Athletes would get paired up with either artists or musicians, and vice versa. Danielle¡¯s


    roommate in particular was a sculptor from Colorado named Emily Rose. The two didn¡¯t hang out much due to their demanding schedules, but were very friendly and supportive towards each other. Emily


    would come to cheer Danielle on at the track meets whenever she could, and Danielle would listen to Emily¡¯s insecurities about her art with a smile.


    Emily lived up to her last name; she could be sweet and


    demure most of the time but occasionally would have violently emotional outbursts. During these times, Danielle would sit on the edge of Emily¡¯s bed and comfort her until the surge of emotions stopped. Emily had been getting better with her outbursts as of recently, but still would occasionally text Danielle for


    support. The three story dorm had ten rooms on every level; each room came with generous living space and two queen sized beds. The hall itself boasted three common rooms, each with a large twenty-six inch LCD television complete with touch screen capability and a live stream of weather for the day.


    Each floor was attended to do daily by a professional maid staff, and as a result Porter Hall had earned the moniker ¡°The Porter Inn¡± among the student body, especially among those students who lived in the more standard residence halls.


    The looks of longing and resentment Danielle had received when she


    told her fellow students she was in Porter Hall had trained her to avoid the topic of where she lived whenever possible. The main entrance to Porter Hall was located across the street from where the grassy trail ended.


    The entrance to Porter was composed of a sturdy wooden door and, slightly above


    and to the left of the door, a foot long and six inches wide black plastic box with a red light near the top. To get into the building, a student needed only to scan his or her I.D. card in front of the electronic lock, which would then change color and unlock the door. The lock could be opened by any student or faculty keycard, but only until five in the afternoon. After that, only the residents of the hall could get into the building. There was a metal skeleton key available for use by the sanitary staff and campus


    administrators, but it was usually only used when the electronic lock wasn¡¯t functioning properly.


    Danielle scanned her card in front of the black box, and the red light turned green for a brief moment. The door in front of her unlocked with a soft click.


    Danielle entered the lobby, walked past the leather chairs, and climbed up the flight of marble stairs directly in front of her. After climbing to the second


    floor of the dorm, she took a sharp left into the girls hallway. Bensen allowed Co-Ed dorms, but they kept hallways segregated by sex so things didn¡¯t get too crazy at night. Danielle was a supporter of that particular decision, she had learned that if a girl talked to a boy she found cute at eight in the evening they wouldn¡¯t bid adieu until three in the morning.


    Danielle wasn¡¯t a prude, and certainly saw no harm in being sexually active, but the last thing someone who just ran fifteen miles and would have to run


    eight more in the morning wanted was to be kept awake. Danielle went past three doors before she arrived at her room. She knocked on the door twice, and was greeted by silence. Danielle coughed and cleared her throat. ¡°Emily? You there?¡± Still no answer came from the door. Danielle grew slightly concerned, Emily was by no means a quiet girl and usually was quick to answer. Danielle fumbled through her backpack again and called Emily. The phone went straight to voicemail. It was at this point


    that Danielle smelt something foul. Porter Hall, despite its many niceties, was still a residence hall for college students, and the smell of vomit, fecal matter, and other such pleasantries was no stranger to


    Danielle. This smell, however, was alien and disturbing. It reminded Danielle of the time she had accidentally drunken rotten milk, but the current scent induced three times the nausea. The smell just outright spooked Danielle, there was something fundamentally WRONG about the scent. Danielle tensed up, and tried turning the door handle. The handle moved, and the room was apparently


    unlocked.


    She gulped, and pushed the handle forward. Almost immediately, the stench grew worse.


    Danielle felt like she wanted to throw up, despite not having much in her stomach. She gasped with horror and disgust at what she saw.


    There was a muddy substance covering the room. Edging over


    towards the foul smelling and ugly looking substance, she worked up the courage to poke the muck with her finger. Fear, then confusion, then irritation flashed suddenly and subsequently on the athlete¡¯s face. Danielle placed her palm to her face and groaned loudly. The substance that was now making her hand


    smell like decaying animals was clay, but unfortunately for Danielle and her room this particular brand of clay was the sulphur based kind.


    Emily had mentioned that she preferred the sulphur and oil based


    clay over the water based clay because sulphur based clay could hold a shape better than water based clay could. Danielle understood Emily¡¯s decision, but she never assumed that the sculptor would actually attempt to use their nice and tidy dorm room to sculpt. Still, despite her annoyance and the sorry shape of her dorm room, Danielle was happy that her earlier fear was unfounded. Turning around to get some


    paper towels to clean up the mess, she noticed a message scribbled on a whiteboard .


    ¡°Hey Dany, I¡¯ve made a bit of a mess in here, I¡¯m off to get some cleaning supplies. I¡¯ll see you later!¡±


    Emily had signed the message with a pink erasable marker, and had drawn a super deformed picture of Danielle


    and her holding hands below the signature.


    Danielle giggled to herself. ¡°Good old Emily.¡± Danielle decided to take a quick shower in order to wash off the clay. If she was quick enough, she would be able to snag a front row seat for the jazz concert after all. Danielle headed back down the hall, towards the girls bathroom. She couldn¡¯t believe she had been so worried over something so silly.


    She was at Bensen, things generally went well here. The people were nice if a bit snooty, and the classes were great. She placed her left hand on the bathroom door, and started to push.


    Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her left thigh. With a sudden jerk, she grabbed her stomach with both her hands. Danielle had often experienced terrible cramps from running, but she had never felt any pain in her abs and stomach


    that was intense and burning as she did now. She coughed up some mucus reflectively.


    After the pain dissipated a bit, she examined her left thigh. There, jaggedly sticking out of her upper leg were Emily¡¯s purple scissors. Danielle¡¯s face turned very pale. She attempted to remove the object, but she ended up pushing both blades into her thigh even deeper. She cried out from the severe pain, and noticed that her hands and leg were covered with blood. Danielle coughed up some mucus once more, but the taste


    differed greatly this time.


    Her tongue could make out the usual texture of her phlegm, with a metallic


    flavor. Danielle realized all too swiftly that she was coughing up blood. The pain caused her to stumble, then fall. She couldn¡¯t move. She didn¡¯t know why she couldn¡¯t move, or how a pair of scissors had come to be lodged in her thigh, or why they were there, but they were. Although she never paid much attention in biology class, she thought a person could only cough up blood from being stabbed in the


    stomach, not from something as minor as being stabbed in the leg. Yet, the puncture present in her thigh seemed to make her entire body hurt.


    Danielle suddenly felt cold, more cold than she had ever felt, even more cold than the time the Island got a three foot snowstorm. The pain grew more severe and


    more intense. Her stomach throbbed and convulsed rapidily. With a wretched gasp, she puked up even more blood in addition to the oatmeal she had eaten ten hours earlier. Her arms and legs kicked out and thrashed, in vain she tried to get back up or crawl. Danielle¡¯s body, which now seemed to weigh a hundred tons, would not obey her brain¡¯s commands, would not listen to her heart¡¯s desperate plea.


    She attempted to call out for helped, to yell, but all that came out of her throat was a guttural wheeze accompanied by bloody mucus and metallic tasting vomit. Both of her legs were soaked with sticky crimson fluid now. Her eyes watered, and tears starting flooding down her cheek. Her vision started to fade and take on a red tint. With one last burst of willpower, Danielle managed to turn her neck just enough to look behind her. She squinted with every ounce of her body. All she could make out were a


    pair of milky blue eyes.


    And then the fire went out.

 Blue – II

    Travis loved mornings. He usually was up and dressed at five AM, and rarely if ever slept past eight.


    There was just something invigorating and joyful about morning that made Travis unable to stay asleep for very long after sunrise. His chronically light sleeping habits may have been due to the bright sunlight he could nearly feel on his skin after he opened his house door to get the morning paper, as clich¨¦d of a reason as that may be. Perhaps his early bird nature was caused by the wet grass he and Texas trotted on whenever they went for a jog, or maybe the fresh air that one could only breathe in the AM.


    Whatever the cause, Travis found his spirit to be most at ease in the dawn. It was all the better, then, that Travis had the job that he did. His job demanded that his hours be as flexible as his lanky body was. At any moment, at any place, and at any time, the blackberry strapped to Travis¡¯s pants could chime and send Travis to anywhere in the country. Through a turn of unlikely events, Travis was currently employed as a Special Agent for the BAU. While his appointment to this position made him quite popular at parties and his mother very proud, his job was nowhere near as exciting or glamorous as the tv dramas that his father loved to watch indicated. Travis was originally hired into the organization not due to his knack for saving hostages from madmen, or a knack for taking out terrorists with a two by four and some tooth floss, but mostly because he majored in accounting at a time when most people others turned their efforts towards studies in Political Science and English. He wasn¡¯t particularly skilled at math, but Travis found that he was particularly able when it came to devoting hours and hours of his life to work that most sane people would find mind numbingly dull and repetitive. True, in college he had very excellent grades, but when you go to the local community college there really is not much else to do but study.


    Well that, or die of severe alcohol poisoning, which is not to say people were incapable


    of doing both. In any event, Travis¡¯s new role as a Special Agent wasn¡¯t very different from his role as an accountant. Charlotte had a fair deal of crime, but the city police was quite capable and preferred to handle most of the things that went down. Travis was twenty nine years old, yet if one were to look at him one may have assumed that he was nineteen. The youthful looking man stood at six feet and four inches. He was a bit scrawny, though not to the point of looking like a twig in a suit. He usually kept his blonde hair short and well combed, and his eyebrows were thin and even.


    The glasses he would wear were rimmed at the top and contained two different lenses, which served to correct both of his blue eyes poor vision. Travis preferred glasses over contacts; they were less of a hassle to wear and he did not have to touch his eye to put them on. He had rejected the possibility of laser eye surgery altogether, there are some places where technology did not belong, and Travis¡¯s cornea was one such place. His work outfit was a blue blazer, some well folded and ironed black dress pants, and a blue and gold striped tie given to him by his beaming father when the BAU accepted him as an accountant. Travis¡¯s clothing


    was quite well pressed, but his tie in particular was kept in tip top condition. Travis didn¡¯t feel that he was particularly egotistical, but he kept the letter of acceptance to Quantico laminated and framed on the table next to his bed. He came from an upper middle class family, his father worked for banks as a human resource consultant and his mother taught arithmetic to third graders at First Ward Elementary school in Charlotte. His parents were getting a bit on in years, so Travis took great care to perform his


    morning routine as silently as he could. Today was no different. Travis began each morning by making his cot¡¯s sheet nice and neat soon after he managed the willpower to get out of bed. He found the challenge of getting up out of bed a manageable one, but he wasn¡¯t the type to sleep alone often.


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    His near perpetual cot-mate was a big hundred and twenty pound yellow lab named Texas, and Texas was a bit more of a heavy sleeper than Travis was. Travis had learned through his seven years with Texas that the big mutt absolutely adored sleep. Getting up out of bed and fetching a milk bone from the basement closet, Travis demonstrated something else that he had learned about the state sized dog. While Texas loved sleeping, he enjoyed eating even more. Travis placed the bite sized treat an inch from the dog¡¯s black nose, and Texas¡¯s brown eyes opened as if he were just splashed with ice cold water. With a wag of his nearly two foot long tail, Texas jumped out of bed and sat on the floor obediently. Travis chuckled.


    ¡°I guess you can move quickly, if the circumstances are right. Ok boy, here you go, don¡¯t eat it


    too quickly.¡± The dog scarfed down the treat resting in Travis¡¯s outstretched palm. After spending five minutes folding his sheets and making his cot, Travis went upstairs to the ground floor of his parent¡¯s home, followed closely by Tex. Travis took care of his personal hygiene in the guest bathroom, which was located right next to the main entrance and exit of the house. With a barely audible click, the lanky man opened the door and turned one of the dimmer lights. He tip-toed into the lavatory, but his efforts of making as little noise as possible were foiled by the loud clip-clopping of his dog¡¯s paw on the bathroom tiles.


    When he took a look around the pristine facility, Travis noticed his blackberry was still on top of the sink where it had been placed the previous evening.


    The outfit he had picked out and folded neatly the previous evening was still hanging in the bathroom closet. He went over to the tub, and turned the hot water knob all the way to the right after he clogged up the drain with a rubber stopper. While the bath slowly began to fill, he examined himself in the mirror. There was a bit of blonde stubble on his chin, so he put his electric razor to the bottom of his chin and gradually trimmed it off. He put a conservative amount of toothpaste on his toothbrush, and scrubbed his teeth for about a minute and a half. When Travis was done cleaning the plaque off of the milky whites of his mouth, he made sure to floss the gaps between his teeth slowly and thoroughly. He ended his dental hygiene by


    gargling cinnamon flavored mouthwash for thirty seconds.


    The bath was done filling up, so he disrobed


    and climbed in. It was about five forty five in the morning when his black berry began to shake. Travis lazily raised his arm out of the bath and fumbled to grab the device. There was a call incoming from an unlisted number, so he sat up in the bath and answered the electronic device. ¡°Howdy, Travis Davis speaking, may I ask who is calling?¡± Although Travis put on a casual air, he knew whoever was calling had to be someone important. His blackberry was only able to communicate with a fellow bureau member, and usually an unlisted call meant someone needed Travis to do something. Moments after Travis¡¯s inquiry, an elderly gentleman with a hint of a northern twang to his southern accent responded.


    ¡°Oh, morning Agent Davis. This is Jon Lafatear calling, I¡¯m in charge of the Raleigh-Durham division. Listen, there¡¯s been a bit of an incident at Bensen University, and we need you to check things out. The campus police have everything under control, but the magnitude of the situation requires your presence as well. I¡¯d send down someone from my area, but we¡¯ve got our hands tied with a drug operation¡± The statement wasn¡¯t anything surprising to Travis. Six months before, when Travis was first appointed to being a Special Agent, Lafatear¡¯s words may have filled Travis with excitement, but he had learned to take his assignments with a grain of salt. He grimaced as he remembered what happened last time there was an ¡°incident¡± at  Bensen University.


    ¡°Sure thing Agent Lafatear, I¡¯ll head over there asap. Any idea what¡¯s going on at the good old Black and Gold?¡±


    A nervous chuckle came out of the blackberry.


    ¡°Actually Agent Davis, I have no idea. Headquarters didn¡¯t feel like telling me. Who knows, maybe if you¡¯re lucky you¡¯ll get to bust a frat for violating digital copy-right or something. Anyways, thanks for filling in for us and sorry for calling you so early in the morning. Be sure to call if y¡¯all ever need help from us here at Raleigh.¡±


    With a soft click, the man hung up.


    The blonde bathing man wasn¡¯t finished with his phone just yet. Though he wished he didn¡¯t have to, he made a short call to inform his ¡°co-worker¡± of their assignment for the day. After a short and rather unpleasant conversation, Travis got out of the tub to dry off and get ready for the day.


    ¡°Well Tex¡­¡± he said to the yellow labrador ¡°It seems like I¡¯m going to have to go pay another visit to Bensen University.¡± Travis let out a sigh. ¡°At least the Chik-Fil-A there is still open.¡±

 Gray - 1

    Jack didn¡¯t particularly care for mornings and he absolutely hated headaches. Yet despite his preferences, he found himself up early with a migraine on a disgustingly beautiful October day. The table besides him started to shake. He viewed mornings the same way most people viewed death: Inevitable but best left avoided. It wasn¡¯t a matter of not being physical able to appreciate mother nature at the crack of dawn; at the age of 28 Jack Harigand was far from an old man. The table besides his twin sized bed continued to shake in an irritating rhythm.


    He stood at a respectable five feet and nine inches, and his slightly muscular build meant that he easily could handle the trials and tribulations of daybreak. The only hint of aging on the man was a streak of white amongst his jet black hair, which could be covered up easily enough.  A cheery, sing-song voice echoed from the room besides him: ¡°He¡¯ll just keep calling all day if you don¡¯t answer, you know.¡± Jack took great care to avoid mornings, and he took especially great care to inform others that he enjoyed avoiding mornings.  The vibrating of Jack¡¯s flip phone in synch with the painful throbbing of his head could only mean one thing: the government fop wanted some grunt work done nice and early, and that Jack would be the lucky man put in charge of the job. Jack allowed the phone to vibrate for around seven seconds before he acquiesced and hit the small green button near the top of the cellular device.


    ¡°Hello? Jack? You there?¡± mumbled a shaky boyish voice from the phone. Jack sighed, the speaker was exactly who he assumed it would be.


    ¡°I thought I told you about my morning problem¡±


    ¡°Sorry, but this is work related." Jack resisted the temptation to yell duh.


    ¡°Alright then, what do you and your boys want of me today?¡± The flip phone crackled in response.


    ¡°There¡¯s been a little incident at Bensen University that we¡¯ve been assigned to check out.¡±


    Jack let out a gruff snort. ¡°That place is more stuck up than an airplane in a lightning storm, why do we gotta go there? Did Chik-Fil-A try to paint their walls yellow again?¡± After a momentary pause and a gulping sound, the boyish voiced answered, this time with a hint of irritation.


    ¡°Not quite Jackie, something tells me the stakes are a bit higher than the students ability to get some high quality chicken this time. Meet me at the southern campus entrance in three hours.¡±


    Jack groaned. ¡°Fine, but I told you once and I¡¯ll tell you again, stop calling me Jackie. Name¡¯s Jack, always will be, and that won¡¯t change even if I have to spend the rest of my life doing your dirty work.¡± With a sigh, Jack hit a well-used red button on his cell phone and got out of bed. The alarm clock next to him glowed in the faintly dim room, reading Seven Fifteen in red lights. Jack somehow managed to saunter into his bathroom without falling over. The desired destination was the hygienic square, but a pounding headache begged to differ. An unsealed plastic bottle and ingestion of water (among other things) later, the man was ready to scrub the dirt of the previous evening away. Jack went into the shower and turned the hot water knob fully to the right. The steady stream of warm water refreshed his tired body and eased the pain of his aching head. Jack soaked in the steamy shower for a quarter of an hour, then got out and dried himself with his gray bath towel. After he wiped off the moisture and soap from his body, Jack looked in the mirror above the sink.


    There was no facial hair present in dire need of shaving(there rarely was), so Jack decided to brush his teeth and take care of his messy hair. After using a liberal portion of store brand toothpaste on his mouth and brushing his hair so as to downplay his grey streak, Jack got out of the bathroom. Red electronic lights on the alarm clock set for one in the afternoon indicated that the time was now six thirty in the morning. If the year was still two thousand and ten, Jack would throw on a t-shirt, jeans that were two days old, some sandals, and be on his not so merry way. But with the New Year came a new set of circumstances, and Jack¡¯s wardrobe had to not only be clean, but formal as well. Jack wandered over to his dresser, opened up the top drawer and searched for a pair of black socks. He spent about a minute sluggishly shuffling around before he could find two clean socks which were almost the same size and style. Jack grabbed the socks and a new pair of briefs, and shut his dresser drawer. He headed towards the closet, filled with the clothes he wished he wasn¡¯t require to wear on the job.


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    The much despised items were on three neat little wooden hangers, evenly spaced out and on the left side of Jack¡¯s closet. Jack never really cared for Khaki pants, they weren¡¯t nearly as comfortable as jeans and seemed like they belonged more on the legs of a prep school kiddie than they belonged on Jack¡¯s legs. The pants were more still more forgivable than the white shirt, red tie, and blue Brook¡¯s Brothers jacket that Jack put on shortly after, however. Many athletes wore khaki pants, and Jack had a degree of respect for athletes. Unlike the fop, athletes spent their time honing their body and working hard. Athletes, in Jack¡¯s opinion, wouldn¡¯t attempt to fool a man with sly words and devious actions. They were on the up and up, and were much more reliable in their actions than the fop could ever be. The jacket and button down shirt, however, just wouldn¡¯t do. Jack resented wearing a shirt that could only be dry cleaned and ironed almost as much as he disdained wearing a jacket worth more than he paid for the rent of his apartment on a yearly basis. The tie, well, he could live with the tie. Jack was always partial to the color red, and he had been marginally fortunate to receive at least one item of clothing from the fop¡¯s diminutive friend that didn¡¯t make him nauseous. Jack attempted unsuccessfully to get his tie at a decent looking length. Right as he started to undo his knot, the door to his room was thrust open and a energetic figure burst into the room.


    ¡°Well don¡¯t you look fine!¡± exclaimed an energetic young voice. Jack chuckled. ¡°I look about as fine as you drive, Mo.¡± He turned around to properly talk to his roommate. Moira, or as Jack liked to call her, ¡°Mo¡±, was a young lady around the age of seventeen.  She stood at five feet and four inches, and enjoyed chatting and exchanging jabs about as much as Jack enjoyed sleeping.  Her platinum blonde hair struck a sharp contrast to Jack¡¯s ¨Cmostly- black mop.


    ¡°No one looks that fine, honey. When are we leaving anyways?¡±


    Jack finally managed to get his tie at a length he was comfortable with. ¡°The fop wants me to meet him at the southern entrance of Bensen University in about two and a half hours.¡±


    Mo giggled. ¡°Bensen? Did the frat boys have too much of a good time last evening?¡±


    Jack slouched down on his bed. ¡°Something like that. Every time the fop sends me there I have to solve some petty matter or the other.¡± Mo played with a lock of her very light blonde hair.


    ¡°Well, we better get a move on then. Bensen University is about a two and a half drive from here, and that¡¯s assuming we don¡¯t get any traffic from Charlotte. Oh, and don¡¯t forget your hat, I got it for you for Christmas for a reason.¡± Before he could protest, Moira dashed to the closet and with lightning fast speed put a sort of tacky fedora on Jack¡¯s head.


    ¡°And what makes you think I¡¯m gonna wear this?¡±, he asked.


    ¡°Because I ain¡¯t gonna drive you if you don¡¯t, and traffic is just gonna get worse and worse the longer you stall.¡±


    Jack reached into his khaki pants pocket and tossed a key to Mo.


    ¡°Let¡¯s be off then. Maybe if we¡¯re lucky, I¡¯ll be able to punch a drunk pledge in the face.¡±


    Mo caught the key and curtsied. ¡°I like the way you think Jack.¡± Mo opened the door and unlocked the door to Jack¡¯s jeep. ¡°But we¡¯re playing my tunes this time.¡±


    Although Jack tried his very hardest to look annoyed, he couldn¡¯t help but let a hint of a smile emerge on his face. The drive to Bensen University from Charlotte is a scenic one. Even if one were experienced enough to know the most direct route like Moira did, he or she would still be forced to take small roads that remained antiques of the old South and the many tobacco plantations. About an hour and half into the drive to Bensen, a traveler would have many opportunities to see old white wooden manor houses and old tobacco fields which stretched wide and far for miles. At about two hours in, the journey would offer travelers a chance to take in dilapidated shacks and former scanty towns that the share-croppers and overseers would live in during the winter, when the optimal time for harvesting tobacco had past.  Finally, as the seasoned adventurers came within ten minutes to the Bensen University campus, their eyes would be able to witness the lush green hills, two story houses and magnolia trees that defined the town of Bensen.  After navigating through the small but self suffficent town, the traveler would arrive at the southern gate to Bensen, a simple eight foot tall metal gate with Bensen¡¯s signature cursive B in the middle. If one were a student or faculty member, a wallet sized identification would be the only thing needed to open the gate.


    Unfortunately, neither Jack nor Moira had such a card. The visitor¡¯s parking, in sharp contrast to Jack¡¯s memory of his last visit to the school, was mostly vacant. In fact, the only other cars that were present at all were two campus police vans and a supply truck for the on campus coffee shop. Mo found a spot close to the campus entrance and put the Jeep into neutral. ¡°I take it that blondie didn¡¯t tell you that the gate would be closed today, right?¡±


    Jack pinched the temple of his forehead and sighed, his gray eyes narrowing. ¡°He never really tells me much.¡± Jack straightened his tie. ¡°You stay here with the car, I¡¯ll talk to someone to get inside and see what that blue eyed boy scout wants.¡±


    Mo pouted. ¡° Aw shucks, you never let me in on any of the fun.¡±

 Brown – 1

    There are many reasons to want a job, the gray haired old man thought. Course there were people who viewed jobs as a means, not an ends in themselves. These fellas chose their job not out of love for the work they would do, but for the way they were able to put food on the shelf and increase their standard of living every paycheck. Not many investment bankers enjoy working ten hour days, the elderly man supposed, but almost all of them enjoy earning six or seven figure salaries each year. Garbagemen don¡¯t all have a burning passion for collecting trash in their hearts, the brown eyed senior considered, yet they do have a near universal need to fulfill their basic physiological needs. Conversely, thought the old man, there are those who forsake a comfortable life style for the love of their job. To some, he thought, what they do from nine to five is as important if not moreso as what they do from five o one to eight fifty nine. For these people, their need to work in a specific role is practically as strong as their need for oxygen. There is no right option among these two choices; both philosophies have their pros and cons.


    With this in mind, Peter considered himself blessed. Ever since he was a young boy, Peter loved helping people. When he was in fifth grade, Peter would always try to talk to his fellow classmates and make sure they were ok. Whenever he would find a boy or girl who was depressed, he¡¯d ask them what was wrong and try to make cheer him or her up. If that failed, Peter made it his personal mission for the day to right whatever wrong was plaguing his depressed classmate. That was the type of person Peter was fifty years ago, and he remained that kind of person today. As soon as he graduated high school, Peter applied to join the Charlotte Police Department. He specifically requested a job as patrolling officer in the poorer district of the city, and swiftly gained a reputation as the go to man if you were having trouble. His sympathetic disposition and gentleness when it came to dealing with trauma quickly earned him a reputation as the golden boy of the CPD. However, his experience serving in the force soured one evening, when he was unable to prevent a mugging victim¡¯s death. Over the years, several similar incidents has taxed his psyche, and late one Saturday evening, he submitted a one hundred and fifty word letter of resignation to the chief of the Charlotte Police Department. There was an unpleasant incident. Peter wasn¡¯t exactly unafraid to use his firearm in the line of duty, but¡­ well, the incident was complicated.


    The person Peter shot wasn¡¯t exactly innocent; in fact he was covered with the blood of some unfortunate family when Peter  encountered him. But the man who Peter killed, well, something wasn¡¯t right with him. There was a crazed look in his eye, and even though the autopsy revealed nothing unusual, both in the body and brain of the suspect, that crazed look haunted Peter, made his job unbearable. He was thirty seven at the time, thirteen years too young to gain retirement pay. To make ends meet and to have something to do, Peter spent the next five years as a bartender, a job which he felt was a bit more relaxing, although not nearly as well paying. He loved to listen to his patrons stories, and they in turn loved to open their hearts to him. On his shifts, the bar was never empty, and neither was his tip jar. However, around this time his mother fell ill, so he had to once again retire from his job and move in with her in Raleigh, as his family could not afford a caretaker. He stayed with her as a de facto wet nurse for nearly nine months, before she passed away in her sleep from a brain aneurysm.


    Unemployed and with no residence besides his mother¡¯s home in Raleigh, Peter became depressed. Fortunately, his depression ended a month after his mother¡¯s death. An old friend of Peter¡¯s from the time he worked at the CPD had been appointed in charge of Bensen University¡¯s Campus Police, and offered him a very generous position that came with housing. Peter was over-joyed. He never went to college himself, but from his time as a bartender he had come to appreciate the cheery optimism that seemed to be specific to university students. It seemed that in a world where one often had to choose between a gilded jail cell or frugal freedom, fortune decided to bless Peter with a third option. The following years became the best in the former bartender¡¯s life. Bensen¡¯s campus was beautiful, and the people who attended the school were beautiful. Each and every student refreshed Peter¡¯s spirit, from the struggling poet to the confident political science major, he loved seeing generations of bright young kids develop into well rounded mature adults. As for the students themselves, most came to know Peter as the man to go to whenever someone had a bit too much to drink, or when they had a problem they didn¡¯t want to spread around campus.


    Peter was not a pushover, he enforced the University¡¯s zero tolerance policy for alcohol in the underclassman dorms as strictly as the next officer, but he hardly ever would write up a student if he suspected they had been drinking off campus or at a fraternity longue. Instead, whenever he saw a student who wasn¡¯t doing well, alcohol related or otherwise, he would stay with him or her until he or she felt better, or until someone more capable than himself could take over. Students and Faculty members alike had a great deal of respect towards him as a result, and would tolerate little rudeness towards him. Peter had fallen in love with Bensen University, and Bensen University had fallen in love with Peter. The days turned into months, the months into years, and the years into decades. This night Peter had been assigned to patrol the grounds outside of freshmen dorms. He loved being assigned to the freshmen dorms, they were the nicest looking and offered a chance for him to meet new faces. The more stressful workload that came with having to deal with freshmen didn¡¯t bother him as much as it bothered the other campus officers; he relished the opportunity to make himself useful among those newer to the school. It was a warm evening, so he wore his uniform minus his cap and sweater, and instead of his boots he put on some sandals(In a show of benevolent neglect, most of Bensen¡¯s strict employee dress code didn¡¯t really apply to Peter.)


    It was roughly seven o clock when he noticed the lights in Porter Hall go off. Peter smiled to himself, Porter Hall may have been the nicest place on the entire campus, but even the most perfect college residence hall wasn¡¯t immune to some flaws. The flaw he had in mind was the electronic lock system, or rather one specific side effect that came with the technology of the future. Bensen had outfitted Porter Hall with state of the art electronic locks that could read student and faculty ID cards, even through a thick leather wallet. The card system allowed for more convenience than a metal key would, and saved the university a ton of money. Typically, if a student lost a metal key Bensen University would have to spend fifty dollars replacing the key and an additional hundred dollars changing the lock(after all, there was always the risk of someone else coming into possession of the key.) With the electronic lock, the costs of making a new key dropped dramatically, and there was essentially no need to change the lock. After all, if a student lost their card, all he or she would need to do would be to contact the residence hall manager. The manager would deactivate the lost key simply by clicking an option on the computer. The student would then have to pay three dollars, and after a brief lecture on the importance of being organized, would get a brand new electronic ID card. The system was much cheaper and way more convenient than the old physical lock system. Being an elderly gentleman, Peter knew that perfection was hard to grasp, even at Bensen, and the system had one critical flaw that he had dealt with many times since the electronic locks were implemented. Simply put, during a power outage no students could get in or out of the buildings.


    Doors that were locked were remained locked, and only doors whose lock systems had been disengaged by the keycard could be traveled through. Unfortunately, the latter category was few and far inbetween, primarily because the doors automatically locked themselves five seconds after opening. Bensen knew this would be a problem when they had the tech department install the system, and had a contingency plan for such an event. When the techies had installed the electronic locks, they also put in physical locks that could be opened by a metal key. Copies of this key were distributed among the campus police, and in the event of a power outage the officers would run over to each dorm and unlock the doors which were keeping the students in or out. Peter had a bad left knee due to being older than most campus officers, but he tried his best to hurry over to Porter Hall. What he saw there confirmed his suspicions, a crowd of freshmen were loitering outside of the main entrance, joking and laughing about their current predicament. Peter causally strolled into the crowd and walked towards the door. He used his playfully loud and deliberately airy tone to announce his presence.


    ¡°Y¡¯know, I heard y¡¯all were supposed to be pretty darn bright, but I sure can¡¯t see a damn thing from here.¡±


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The students laughed at Peter¡¯s small  joke, and moved aside to let him unlock the door. With a simple turn of his key and a small click, the door opened.


    ¡°Alright, now y¡¯all sit tight here, I¡¯m going to go save the rest of you poor freshmen.¡±


    The Security Officer¡¯s face didn¡¯t even change a bit when the crowd of freshmen began clapping and cheering loudly and wildly. Peter dexterously fetched a flashlight from his utility belt, turned the device on and strolled into the hall. Porter Hall was usually very nice looking, but damn if the lobby didn¡¯t look spooky in the dark. The plaster busts of Porter would cast eerie shadows upon the marble floor, and the brown leather sofas in the main lobby looked downright sinister when juxtaposed with the pasty white walls. Putting his free hand on the gold painted railing of Porter¡¯s main staircase, Peter walked down a floor to the basement level, which in a short period of time had gained the dubious reputation of not only being the most rowdy win in Porter Hall, but of the entire Freshman Campus.


    Porter Hall had random room assignments, and tried to mix athletes and artists alike, but sometimes the demographics of the new class simply would not lead to as well balanced of a mix as the directors of student housing would have liked. Porter Basement, or as they liked to call themselves; PB, had ended up hosting quite a few freshmen from not only the basketball team, but from the football team as well. Peter had found that among college kids, the status of being an NCAA athlete in a major sport was not unlike that of being a god. If the residents of PB were gods, they were very much benevolent ones. Sure, Peter had to come by at least once a week to tell the boys to tone their shenanigans down, but he never had to confiscate any illegal substances and he hardly ever ran into much resistance. The athletes may have liked having a fun time more than most people at Bensen did, but they weren¡¯t completely irresponsible. Of course, rumors would pop up every now and then of their exploits off campus, but Peter wasn¡¯t paid to monitor what people did off campus. As he walked through the lower halls, he wasn¡¯t terribly surprised to see that no one was in any of the dorm rooms. The football and basketball athletes had a pretty rigid practice schedule, and they typically wouldn¡¯t be done practicing until nine in the evening at the earliest.


    Even then, the ¡°Work Hard Play Harder¡± atmosphere of Bensen led few people to sleep in the basement of Porter before eleven. Still, Peter¡¯s many years with Bensen University had taught him that not every athlete would go out at night, that it was still possible for a football practice to end early. That¡¯s why he made sure to check every floor whenever there was a blackout, just in case there was a deviation in the well established behavior of Porter Hall¡¯s more rambunctious residents. After all, Peter knew he sure wouldn¡¯t be too pleased if he was trapped in a dark basement for hours and hours upon end. It would seem that the only real benefit of checking out Porter¡¯s basement was the brief exercise that walking down the twenty or so steps provided the elderly adventurer. The vacant silence of the hallway didn¡¯t frustrate Peter, he was pretty happy that he could still predict how the school and its student would behave even after all these years.  Whistling a tune he had heard on the radio the other day, he went back up the stairs and headed over to main floor¡¯s residence hallways.


    This time he found a few giggling freshmen stuck in their rooms, and after exchanging a few jests about the current situation, used his key to let them out. Peter spent about fifteen minutes after this opening all the doors in the first floor hallway, then headed back to the main staircase to climb to the second floor. Peter had energy uncommon to most men in their seventies, but the constant climbing up and down the staircase was taking a toll on his bad knee. When he got to the second floor lobby, he decided to take a break and relax on one of the leather sofas that were right next to the staircase. He had worked up a sweat, so he took a red handkerchief from his maintenance belt and wiped his forehead. Despite his body being sweaty, and despite the throbbing of his left knee, a smile slowly spread on his wrinkly old face. Peter had talked to many premed students during his time at Bensen, and he remembered a conversation he had with one particularly knowledgeable young lady. Apparently, working up  a sweat helped to release chemicals in the brain that induced a feeling of happiness. Peter didn¡¯t know the precise mechanics behind the biological function, but he did know that despite the amount of work he had just done and the amount of work he would have to do, that he was genuinely happy. He was in such high spirits, that he almost failed to hear a soft squeaking sound coming from the second floor girls hallway.  At first he thought the sound was merely the product of his imagination, or perhaps his hearing, which hadn¡¯t been nearly as sharp these days as it once was.


    Gradually, steadily, he became aware of the noise. It sounded like a mouse at first, then became louder, and louder. Finally, his eyes shot open in alarm. The noise wasn¡¯t a mouse, but almost certainly the cry of a student.


    Peter cleared his throat.


    ¡°Hey, hello? Are you ok?¡±


    No one responded, and the horrible noise got louder. The guard began running as fast as his bad knee would allow for. He quickly unlocked the door to the girls hall, and sprinted towards the source of the cacophony. It was dark in the hall, and he fumbled over a few chairs and hit into a few open doors on the way, but if the contact with the debris in the hallway hurt Peter in any way he certainly didn¡¯t seem to show any symptoms of pain or injury. As he got closer and closer to the source of the noise he smelt a combination of vomit and something metallic. The smell became so bad Peter nearly had an opportunity to taste the turkey and hummus sandwich he had at lunch for a second time.


    Taking a gulp of air and covering his nose, Peter continued running towards the noise.


    ¡°Hey! Are you alright?" he cried. "What¡¯s going on? Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m coming!¡±


    Finally, his efforts to track the source of the noise led him to the outside of the girl¡¯s bathroom. Peter could make out two silhouettes laying down by the entrance. He shined his flashlight on the silhouettes. The light revealed an apparently unconscious young brown haired woman, her body faced down on the floor wearing a track uniform and some cleats. Crouched right besides her was a small little co-ed, sobbing hysterically while holding the hand of the girl in the track suit.  Peter had to cover his mouth with his left hand. The track girl had a stream of red vomit coming out of her mouth. In sharp contrast to her motionless body, a small line of blood steadily flowed down to the athlete¡¯s left foot. Brown eyes followed the bloody stream from the foot to the thigh, and noticed a pair of purple scissors grotesquely jammed in the poor young lady¡¯s thigh. The scissors were almost childlike in their appearance, and in truth were more of a lavender hue than a purple. Yet, in the current situation, the scissors looked like a deliberate mockery of innocence, a condescending defilement of purity. His brain surged with pain and tried to escape from his skull. Peter had seen some sordid scenes as a cop in Charlotte, but none of them were as chilling and nausea inducing as the one before him.


    Despite his sense of vertigo, Peter remembered his CPR training and placed his index finger on the girl¡¯s neck. The athlete¡¯s skin was cold to the touch, and Peter¡¯s fingers weren¡¯t moved a millimeter from where he had first put them. The incoherent screaming of the kneeling girl subsided, replaced by all-too-coherent shrieks.


    ¡°He¡¯s right behind you! He¡¯s right behind you! He got her, and he¡¯s going to get me!¡±


    Peter¡¯s heart nearly exploded. He twisted his head around in an instant, and saw¡­. nothing. The only thing he could see was the lonely Porter hallway, with nothing but some furniture in the distance.


    ¡°He¡¯s STABBING you! He¡¯s KILLING you! WHY AREN¡¯T YOU RUNNING?¡± ejaculated the girl.


    Peter slowly shook his head, his mouth gradually opened. Peter wanted to say something to the crying girl besides him. He wanted to comfort her, even while his brain struggled to make sense of the profoundly bizarre scene before him. Yet while his mouth was open, and though his bottom jaw moved up and down, Peter couldn¡¯t say anything. The crouching girl¡¯s body kept shaking violently, her and only hysterical delusion came from her mouth. All he could do was hug the hysterical young woman as she continued to bob up and down, her little fingers twitching uncontrollably. To his amazement, he realized that he was shaking the girl in his arms. With one last hysterical scream, the crouching crying girl passed out in his twitching arms.


    Peter picked the unconscious yet breathing girl up. His left knee ached more than it ever had before, but slowly, steadily, he walked the ragdoll-like woman over to the couch in the lobby and lied her down as gently as his shocked reflexes could allow him to. Peter disobeyed his body¡¯s screams to lie down, to wait for the madness to end. He moved back to the fallen athlete as fast as he could. With a bit of the initial shock over, he took a better look around. His brown eyes noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but his nose was even more acutely aware of the smell of blood and vomit. Peter had no delusions about the condition of the woman before him. There was only one thing left to do before he called the rest of the guards. He turned the motionless girl over, On the tv, when the cop would run across a dead woman he¡¯d clean her mouth and close her eyes. Peter figured he should do this, that if he couldn¡¯t save the girl he should at least make her look somewhat respectable. When he turned her over, he could have cleaned her mouth. It wouldn¡¯t have been much of a challenge, he had some paper towels on him. He never did. For while there was blood on the girls mouth to clean, there were no eyes to close.

 Gray – 2

    Jack liked old people. Not in THAT way, (unless you were Clint Eastwood or an actress from the 1940¡¯s), but he felt like he belonged with them more than his peers. They liked to sleep in late, hardly ever used cell phones, and were direct about what they wanted. Younger people, well, they operate differently. They may want something from you, but they sure as heck won¡¯t tell you directly. They¡¯ll make it seem like what they want is what you want, and nine times out of ten they¡¯ll succeed in the attempt. Jack was only slightly irritated at their false friendliness, after all, being selfish is as human of an instinct as speaking is. Jack wasn¡¯t talkative, but he sure as hell didn¡¯t give a rat¡¯s ass about most other people. The thing that got to Jack was how young people thought they weren¡¯t being selfish, how they believed that they put others above themselves. The Fop was the same way. He actually thought his ¡°offer¡± to Jack was lenient, that he was doing Jack a favor by roping him into all this bureaucratic monotony.


    Jack never blamed the blue eyed idiot for reeling him in, but he sure as hell resented being put in the fishtank. It was to his relief then that he saw an old woman at the security booth, filing her rosy pink nails while a song from an old musical played. Jack casually strolled up the cement path from the parking lot to the booth and knocked on the window.


    The old woman batted an eye, and looked up at Jack.


    ¡°My, ain¡¯t you a tall one. What¡¯s up cutie-pie?¡±


    Trying his hardest to conceal his blush, Jack coughed out his question.


    ¡°Uh, uh, I need to get into the campus. Work related and all. Partner, uh, he messed up.¡±


    The old lady chucked.  ¡°Aw cutie, I didn¡¯t mean no harm. Nothing wrong with your height, it makes you look distinguished.¡±


    Jack scratched the back of his neck.


    ¡°Well, uh, t-thanks ma¡¯am, I, uh, I knew you didn¡¯t mean no harm. Listen, uh, I think we¡¯re getting a bit sidetrack-¡°


    ¡°Oh shoot, where are my manners?", the old lady gasped. "That old gate? Well sure I can open the gate for you honey, but I need some ID. Unless you¡¯re a student, but you look a bit too refined to be here taking classes¡±


    Jack sighed. Since the day he got his ID he had tried his hardest to avoid using it. When it came to shopping it was a non-issue, no bartender or liquor store owner would mistake him for being under the age of 21, despite his abnormal height. The gray streak in his hair seemed to make up for his five foot eight frame. Plus, he figured, with Mo around some people may have figured he was her father. It wasn¡¯t quite like that, but if a store owner ever thought that Jack would be in no hurry to correct them. In the back of his head he suspected that the Fop had intentionally arranged to meet him past the gate, to force him to use his ID. There was no alternative available, as nice and chatty as the dotting grandmother masquerading as a security guard seemed it was doubtful that Jack could just walk in the campus by asking her nicely. He opened up his wallet and took out his BAU badge.


    The well-dressed gatekeeper¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Ha, I knew from the look of those muscles you were athletic hun but seems like you have brains to boot! Gate¡¯s all opened, but first tell me what¡¯s it like to deal with criminals for a living. As much as it may shock you, Bensen doesn¡¯t tend to deal with bad guys too often, though we DID have a laptop thief last year, son of a gun took away twenty four of our laptops in a night. I wanted to slap the guy when we caught him, but he got let off with a warning. A warning, can you believe that? I doubt you and the fine gentlemen you worked with would stand for that!¡±


    Jack smirked despite his embarrassment. ¡°Well actually ma¡¯am, I find that my work with the BAU has helped me get in touch with people very much like myself.¡±


    The old lady swooned. ¡°And the old shrews say things haven¡¯t changed over the last fifty years. Well go and color me impressed, y¡¯all have a good time at Bensen University and be sure to drop by any time! Don''t mind the men - you know how boys are.¡±


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Not bothering to make a note of the security guard¡¯s invitation, Jack waited by the huge metal gate with the signature ¡°B¡± in the middle. It took a few seconds, but the gate opened up, creaking ever so slightly as it did. Jack hadn¡¯t been in through the south entrance before, but he saw he really had no major need to. Like the rest of Bensen, the landscape was just grass, red brick, and white roofs. Some called Bensen gorgeous, and Jack supposed they were right, but Bensen was gorgeous in the same way having your favorite food for every meal was delicious. The monotony of the architecture was oppressive, its consistent demands for conformity discomforting. Jack liked a bit of variety, he had always hated routines. Living thirty years doing different things was preferable to living three hundred doing the same thing. It¡¯s a clich¨¦, but variety is the spice of life, and though Bensen was a well-made dish, it lacked true flavor. Jack had many issues with Bensen; the frat boys, the self-proclaimed intellectuals, and the wannabe writers, but his main issue was how goddamn predictable the place was. Jack didn¡¯t watch too much science fiction, he found the concepts silly and boring, but he had a suspicion that if he stumbled upon a time machine and went back two decades into the past Bensen would look almost exactly like it did now.


    The very thing which made Bensen University so respectable ¨C It¡¯s historical prestige ¨C was what irritated Jack, what made him feel like he needed a bottle of water and two aspirin. He walked on the cement pathway past the ¡°gorgeous¡± red brick and white roofed chapel, past the ¡°gorgeous¡± red bricked and white roofed Student Union, and past the ¡°gorgeous¡± red brick and white roofed Chik-Fil-A, until he finally caught sight of the well dressed twig. The twig had caught sight of Jack well before Jack had caught sight of him, and jogged up to Jack to bother him with pointless dribble.


    ¡°How¡¯s it going Jackie? You get in the gate easy enough?¡±


    Jack snorted. ¡°Yeah, no thanks to you. And I told you, the name¡¯s just Jack, always will be. This ain¡¯t a buddy cop show (Being the owner of a considerable dvd collection of buddy cop shows Jack more than anyone else knew when something was not a buddy cop show) , and I ain¡¯t your pal."


    Jack paused to let his barb sink in, and continued. ¡° So what were we called here for this time?¡±


    Travis gingerly massaged the bridge of his nose. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know that just yet¡­¡±


    Jack scoffed. ¡°Well, I noticed that Chik-Fil-A has finally bowed down to the architectural might of Bensen¡¯s building codes, so I guess we can cross them off the list, unless those rumors about the breakfast sausage I heard the other day are true¡±


    Travis loudly cleared his throat. ¡°I told you before, it¡¯s a lot more serious than that. The guys up in Raleigh personally asked us to take a look at it, and I really have a feeling this is bi-¡°


    Travis was interrupted by a low chuckle.


    ¡°Right, because the boys in Raleigh are just so eager to pass up interesting work, aren¡¯t they?¡±, Jack grunted.


    The taller man put his face in his palm and groaned. ¡°It¡¯s not very becoming to be sarcastic, y¡¯know. Anyways, the head of security wants us to speak to a guard, it¡¯s related to why we were called here.¡±


    Jack tugged a bit at his left glove. ¡°Fine, we¡¯ll talk to the old windbag. Maybe he¡¯ll tell us about the despicable potheads he ¨Calmost- caught last night before they foiled him by being able to speed-walk.¡±


    While the two men waited in the middle of the grassy quad, Jack took a look around. He noticed an assortment of tents a few hundred yards to the right of his position, with tons of sleepy-eyed college students chatting outside of the portable shelter. Honing in on two brown hair co-eds, he caught the tail end of their conversation.


    ¡°-n¡¯t believe we had to camp out here. ¡°What are you gonna do, Carbon Monoxide is scary stuff.¡±


    ¡°Better safe than sorry I guess.¡±


    The black haired man smirked. Despite Bensen¡¯s supposed wealth, even they couldn¡¯t prevent acts of God. Still, as much as he hated to admit it, he was glad the students seemed ok. Dying young just seemed cruel, and dying at a place like Bensen would be even worse. After what seemed to be an hour, a member of the Bensen University Police Force showed up in a golf cart. The officer, a portly middle aged man, ran as fast as his stumpy legs could manage to Travis and Jack. After he huffed and puffed for a few seconds, he managed to splutter out a question.


    ¡°Officer Bill Feinstein reporting¡­y-y¡¯all with the BAU?¡±


    Travis took his hands out of his pockets and smiled. ¡°We sure are Officer Feinstein. FBI''s Behavioral Analysis Unit is at your service. What¡¯s the situation?¡±


    The corpulent man wiped a liberal amount of sweat from his brow.


    ¡°Well sir, I, uh, I have an inkling of what¡¯s going on but I was told to bring you to Pe- I mean, Officer Garret first.¡±


    Jack threw his hands in the air. ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he just come over here?¡±


    Bill rubbed his face gingerly. ¡°See, he, well, he¡¯s kind of busy. Talking to someone¡­ y-y-you¡¯ll see soon enough.¡±


    Jack opened his mouth to voice an objection, but was cut off by his lanky companion. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s understandable.", Travis said. "Lead the way officer Feinstein.¡±

 Green – I

    Emily felt that there really was only one worse than not being able to paint. She was sculptor, and a pretty darn good one at that. Bensen University must have agreed, because on one chilly November day they sent a very nicely worded letter to her house in Colorado. Of course, the letter mentioned nothing of accepting her (though she had not even applied to the school yet) and nothing about providing her with a scholarship(though the letter put a particular emphasis on Bensen¡¯s generous scholarships available to artists(Bensen has money, shocking story)That¡¯s not the point), but the postcard HAD given her a waiver to apply to the school for free, and with a personal application to boot. Emily didn¡¯t have that high of a GPA in school, she averaged a 2.0 even after the weighted average kicked in. She didn¡¯t go out partying, she rarely ever hung out with her friends. It wasn¡¯t because she was anti-social, to the contrary she was on very good terms with her entire school. Living in a small town in Colorado just means that social dynamics functioned a bit differently than they did on Long Island, or Long Beach, or any other populated area with ¡°Long¡± in the title. The closest friend to Emily was twenty miles away geographically, and Emily¡¯s family only had one car.


    So, Emily had more than enough time to study. But she didn¡¯t want to study, not one bit in the slightest. That didn¡¯t exactly make her a unique little snowflake amongst her peers(and indeed amongst most kids in the nation), yet Emily felt she was justified in slacking off her studies. For every second she didn¡¯t study, she slept, ate, or sculpted. That wasn¡¯t an exaggeration, she didn¡¯t watch television, she didn¡¯t read, she hardly ever gossiped with her friends.  When it came to sculpting, well, it wasn¡¯t that Emily spent endless hours working with clay, that would be a bit too much even for her. But when her biology teacher attempted (some would say in vain) to communicate the principle of mitosis to her, Emily would be too preoccupied to listen to the lecture, instead directing her thoughts to conceptualizing a new piece of art, or how to best do a touch up job on an older work. One lesson Emily did actually remember was from her music class.


    Her music teacher, Mr. Toto, taught her that there were no ¡°natural geniuses¡± in the world at all, and that all so called ¡°prodigies¡± were actually just people who spent ten thousand hours practicing their chosen passion. Emily wasn¡¯t too good with mathematics, but she figured that with all the time she spent sculpting, she had to have had at least nine thousand hours under her belt, if not ten. And although Emily never bragged about her skill, it seemed to have paid off. The Colorado Art competition had consecutively given Emily first place in the sculpting division for the last three years of her high school career. Her artistic ability was a skill she was very proud of, though Emily would never dream of bragging about her talent. Instead, she just let her work speak for itself.  To the shock of absolutely no one, Emily was officially accepted to Bensen University on a warm March morning. Just as surprising as Emily¡¯s acceptance to the school was the eighty percent scholarship she received with her acceptance letter. Something that was unexpected, however, was Emily deciding then and there to attend Bensen.


    Her mother was confused, because while Bensen certainly was a respectable school, wasn¡¯t there still Harvard to hear from? Did Yale not want to honor Emily¡¯s early admission to the school? Could it be possible that Stanford accidentally accepted too many people? The truth of the matter was simple; Emily felt her artistic ability would develop much better down south than anywhere else. After all, the South had a reputation for its natural beauty, for its more moderate weather, and also because the kids would probably be a bit friendly at Bensen than they would be at the various ¡°Elite¡± colleges Mrs. Lucion wanted her daughter to attend. After a few months of enthusiastic support from her father and what felt like years of passive aggressive exchanges with her mother, Emily boarded a plane to Charlotte International airport and took a cab over to the town and campus of Bensen. She had expected to receive a single room to stay in, but the residence hall she was staying at only had double dorms available. Yet, things hadn¡¯t turned out too terribly. The moment she unlocked her freshman room for the first time she was assaulted with questions and hugs by an energetic brown haired blue eyed girl wearing spats.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Hey, how¡¯s it going?¡± said the well toned girl relaxing on a bed in Emily¡¯s room. ¡°I¡¯m Danielle, but you can call me Dani. it¡¯s nice to meet ya.¡±


    With a bit of a blush, Emily summoned the strength to match her roommate¡¯s enthusiasm.


    ¡°Ha, I¡¯ll do that. My name¡¯s Emily, I¡¯m from Colorado¡­¡±


    ¡°Colorado? Y¡¯don¡¯t say! Well, I¡¯m from Long Island, New York. I¡¯ll have to get you a bagel sometime!¡±


    Emily chuckled, despite her slight embarrassment. Initially, Emily planned to move out of her room, to get a single as soon as she could. She suffered from night terrors, and chronic panic attacks. As for the night terrors, they weren¡¯t really nightmares. Emily never had a dream about snakes biting her, skeletons chasing her, or classmates laughing at her. No, her night terrors just meant that she would, once or twice a month, wake up screaming, and then go back to sleep. It was a nuisance, not really a crippling problem. Emily only knew she suffered from night terrors because her family had informed her of them after she woke them up one too many times when she was in middle school. Due to how Night Terrors operated, Emily barely ever remembered them, and the ones she did remember were just because she did not fall back asleep, or because her family members had woken her up. So she definitely wanted a single. Getting a single room would save her the embarrassment of having other people know of her condition and would save her roommate precious hours of sleep. (Un?)fortunately for her, Dani wasn¡¯t having it.


    ¡°Come on now, y¡¯think I care about you screaming twice a month? I basically scream once a month myself, there¡¯s no harm in letting out a little air. Stay here with me, stay social.¡±


    Emily was touched, but there was still the question of her panic attacks. They were a bit different from Night Terrors, mostly on account of Emily being conscious when she had them. They were not delusions or discomforting visions, they just induced a feeling of heavy anxiety on the young sculptor. Emily¡¯s cure for her panic incidents was just to relax, either on her bed or by talking to her father.


    ¡°So just talk to me!¡± Dani said. ¡°It¡¯s not like it¡¯s any trouble for me anyways.¡±


    And so, despite Emily¡¯s reservations, she stayed roommates with Dani, and grew to trust her. It was odd that an athlete like Dani(she apparently ran track) and an artist like Emily would become such fast friends, but become fast friends they did.  Whenever she had a night terror Dani would just giggle a bit and pat the green eyed girl on the back, and whenever she had a panic attack the athlete would spend as much time with Emily as she could, making sure that the artist didn¡¯t take too many of her anti-depressants. On her end, Emily would help Dani out with picking out stylish outfits and made some very pretty banners for the Methodist Marathoner teams(well, sorta. At the very least Emily ¡°produced¡± some very pretty banners for the Methodist Marathoner teams).


    All things considered, Emily felt that Dani met her a bit more than halfway, but only Emily had an issue with this. Dani seemed just ecstatic about everything, even about waking up at six in the morning to run ten miles. Emily was by no means a child of Thanatos, yet she couldn¡¯t help but be awed by Dani¡¯s amazing vitality. This particular morning, Danielle was up and about at ten. Emily groggily sat up in the bottom part of the bunk bed that she and Dani shared.


    ¡°Morning, Dani. You running to California or something today?¡±


    ¡°Nah, just going on a jog, as bizarre as that may sound. Hey, would you mind making something artsy for the good old Marathoners today?¡±


    Emily immediately perked up. ¡°I¡¯m always up for that! What do you want, a poster? Or perhaps¡­¡± (a slightly malevolent smirk spread across Emily¡¯s face)¡±Perhaps you might want me to make you a little sculpture?¡±


    Dani grinned and slowly shook her head. ¡°Sorry, maybe another time. Can you paint some posters for the team?¡±


    Emily frowned. There was really only one thing worse than not being able to paint; and that was people assuming that you could.

 Amber – 1

    There is an art to preparing breakfast for one¡¯s significant other. Over the years, thousands of brave men and women have endured unbearable hardship and worked for unimaginable hours for the sole purpose of providing their spouse with a tasty yet well balanced meal. The first step of course was having the skill required to stealthily get up and out of bed without waking out the object of affection sleeping peacefully next to you. This first hurdle is also one of the most challenging. Naturally, you can¡¯t rely on your body¡¯s internal clock. Your partner is in all likelihood well used to the time when you will wake up in the morning, so you must take measures to force your body and mind into consciousness earlier than you are accustomed to. Don¡¯t even think of relying on the alarm clock, the loud noise will wake your partner up as well, and that will kill the fruits of your labor in an instant. There are three ways to get past this critical hurdle. If you have excellent willpower, you could just force yourself awake an hour early. This is much harder than you might think, and should only be attempted by those who have done something like that before. If your partner is a heavy sleeper, and if you don¡¯t tend to move around too much when you sleep, consider using a beeper, if you are wealthy enough to afford one. The sound is less than that of any radio alarm clock you can find, and the sound will be somewhat muffled by your body weight. The third option is to simply pull an all nighter. It carries a critical risk of you falling asleep and ruining your entire plan, but if pulled off with the right amount of determination will assure you of victory.


    Sam, now Sam was a warrior. It was four thirty in the morning, and he was fast awake next to his wide asleep wife. The amber eyed man mindset was soundly perfect, and nothing was really on with him. Sam only had an hour to go before he made his wife hams and egg, so naturally his mind was in top tip condition. The time slowly moved by, and finally after what seemed like an hour, his radio alarm clock displayed five thirty. The amber eyed man silently crawled out of bed and headed out of his bedroom and to the kitchen. He and his wife lived in a ranch style house, so the eternal enemy of tired people, stairs, was mercifully not present. It was a stumbling , bumbling, and even slightly tumbling walk down a thin purple hallway with wooden floors, but Sam pulled through and made it into his kitchen. The second trial you must complete in order to make an excellent romantic breakfast is to obtain the proper ingredients.


    Sam had done just that the evening before, as you must do if you want even the slightest chance at success. Sam was a man ahead of his time; despite not being particularly wealthy he had a blender. Sam¡¯s blender, much like his pager, was kept in tip top condition. He put some bananas and milk into the blender, and pressed the low power button. At the same time, he deftly maneuvered his right hand and inserted two pieces of bread in his toaster oven. For the oven, he hit the medium setting. Finally, he poured some coffee from the pot into a pink mug with little green ducks on the handle. Two minutes later, the blended concoction was done. He poured half of the blender¡¯s content in a medium sized glass, and the rest into a Tupperware container that he stored in the fridge. He took a butter knife from the silverware draw, and with a precision rivaling that of Billy the Kid spread peach jam on the golden brown slices of white bread. The final challenge you must prove your mettle in when you take up the crucible of breakfast is in the presentation . If you have any artistic merit, you could consider arranging the food by color.


    Sam was no painter however (there were worse things in the world) , so he opted to bring his wife breakfast in bed, a move as old as the Roman Empire and ten times as noble. Sam carefully placed the toast, coffee, and smoothie on a rectangular wooden tray and with the pace of a ninja walked back into the bed room. He placed the meal on his red haired wife¡¯s chest.


    With a yawn, the sleeping figure sat up. ¡°Suh..ahm?¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m the breakfast fairy. A nice little fella with a knack for preparing food. Decided you shouldn¡¯t have to get up too early today.¡±


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Sam¡¯s wife smiled. ¡°Well, Mr. Breakfast Fairy, I suggest you do something about your face, it¡¯s the ugliest damn thing I¡¯ve ever had to lay my eyes on.¡±


    The fairy in question bowed right by the edge of the queen sized bed. ¡°Gee ma¡¯am, I guess that¡¯s why you married some handsome, smart, and kind gentleman and not a silly little fairy like me. Now eat up, for the next six months you can just forget about that two thousand five hundred daily calorie limit.¡±


    The red haired lady took a sip of the smoothie and frowned. ¡°Uh, not trying to undermine your sweet romantic gesture or anything, but how much did you pay for that silly thing?¡±


    A pink tint spread on Sam¡¯s cheeks. ¡°Hell, I didn¡¯t pay too much. Y¡¯know my pop runs a hardware store, so I got ¡°this silly thing¡± from him for fifteen bucks.¡±


    ¡°From the taste of this smoothie, I¡¯d reckon that your pop got the better end of the deal¡±


    Sam opened his mouth to protest, but was couldn¡¯t make out a word. His wife had crawled over to kiss him. After a few intimate seconds, Sam parted lips with his spouse.


    ¡°Aw, you¡¯re so sweet. You remind me of this one play I saw the other month...¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t even start talking about those plays of yers. Ya know that stuff goes right over my head.¡±


    ¡°Hun, you really need to become more cultured. When are ya gonna finish that book on Anton I lent you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking never.¡±, Sam replied.


    ¡°Sometime before I become old and wrinkly will be nice.", his wife offered. " It¡¯s only about a hundred and twenty thousand words anyways.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s about one hundred and nineteen thousand too many for me. Well, I gotta go to work. Y¡¯all stay safe now.¡±


    The woman besides him giggled, then put her hand over her mouth. ¡°The three of us will be just fine, give em hell hun.¡±


    With that command, Sam jogged back down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. He had about half an hour before he had to leave for work. In the mirror, he noticed that the stubble on his chin was getting a bit too unruly. He took out a razor and trimmed his hairy chin a bit. Sam was a very tall man, standing at six feet and six inches. His broad shoulders suggested that he could have easily been a linebacker back in highschool. He threw some mouthwash in his gullet, gargled, and spit. After splashing some water on his face, he threw on his work uniform lying messily around the bathroom and headed out the door of his apartment. The elevator on the fifth floor was out of order, so Sam sprinted down the concrete stairs as fast as his tall legs could manage. Finally, he made it  to the bus stop outside of his apartment building. The six o clock bus ride was a crowded yet silent ride. Charlotte is filled with many white collar commuters, as it is a gigantic hub for investment banking, public banking, private banking, and it wouldn¡¯t be unwise to bank on it being a hub for other forms of banking as well.


    Now Sam, he wasn¡¯t heading to a bank for his nine to five job. Sam wasn¡¯t too skilled at math, and he wasn¡¯t amazing at talking to people either. No, Sam had a bit more of a humble job than the well-dressed Bensen graduates he saw go into the tall skyscrapers to work every day.  He was an ¡°Executive Manager¡± at a ¡°Digital Media Distribution Outlet¡±, which was a very nice way of saying ¡°Cashier at a rental store.¡± Sam did not resent his job, far from it. Sam loved film. He loved well written comedy movies and how they could make tragic situations entertaining. He adored horror movies and the thrill they would give him. He had a soft spot for romance movies, especially teenaged themed ones, as they reminded him of how he met his wife. As for mysteries, well, they weren¡¯t his thing. Way too cheesy and easy enough to figure out if you paid close enough attention to what was going on in em. Still, Sam was a cinephile and though his pitches to television networks and Hollywood studies hadn¡¯t been successful yet he was perfectly content to chat and rent movies to his fellow enthusiasts.


    The bus went downtown into Charlotte, and stopped at the somewhat dinky store where Sam worked. Sam walked off the bus, thanked the driver, and headed inside. It was nice and sunny today, a beautiful October morning. The temperature wasn¡¯t terribly bad either, a warm seventy five degrees. No humidity either, so Sam¡¯s white shirt remained pristine and uncorrupted by any amount of sweat. Sam pushed open the sliding wooden door and headed inside. The owner of Monster Video Rentals greeted him. He was an old jovial man, demanding in what he expected from his workers(or more accurately, worker) but fair, and was every bit as much of a movie fan as Sam was.


    ¡°Ah, look at who is here nice and early. You trying to get a raise?¡±


    Sam scratched the back of his neck. ¡°Well, now that you mention it¡­¡±

 Gray – 3

    Mo always told Jack not to judge people by appearances. ¡°It¡¯s mean, just,  y¡¯know. Think about it. What do you see when you look at me?¡±


    Jack adjusted his hat. ¡°I see five to ten years in the slammer waiting to happen.¡±


    His quip was rewarded by a hard punch to the left arm. ¡°Ha ha. Well, I ain¡¯t getting a straight response from you any time soon, so I¡¯ll turn this little discussion into a lecture.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re mighty good at doing that Mo.¡±


    ¡°Shush. Anywho, sure, if ya see someone who looks a bit off, you might be tempted to jump to some conclusions. A guy with a scar, for example, might be a fella y¡¯all want to avoid.¡± Mo reclined on the edge of Jack¡¯s bed. ¡°But, I haveta say, imagine this. What if that fella, a fella with a scar on his face, what if he got his little scar by selling ice-cream or something?¡±


    Mo¡¯s hypothethis was answered by raucous laughter from Jack.


    ¡°Oh, I see, the guy with a scar on his face was really just a friendly old ice cream man. That ice cream industry, it¡¯s really a bitch ain¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°I admit, my analogy is a bit of a hyperbole..¡±


    ¡°Hyperwhat?¡±


    ¡°Hyperbole, if I know what it means then you certainly should, ya big lug.¡± Mo took in a deep breath. ¡°Anyways, hyperbole or not, don¡¯t jump to conclusions. People take a look at you, they might think you¡¯re an anti-social brute¡­¡±


    ¡°What if I want people to see me as an anti-social brute?¡±, Jack asked.


    Mo had to suppress a giggle. ¡°Drop the big brooding act, I know you as well as I know myself. You¡¯re a bit cranky, sure, but people going out of their way to avoid you would annoy you. If some guy...¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t swing that way Mo.¡±, Jack grunted.


    ¡°You¡¯re a goddamn pervert, Jack. What I meant is that if some random¡­ person, I¡¯ll say person, keep it vague for ya, if some person avoided you based on how you looked it would...¡±


    ¡°Mean absolutely nothing to me?¡±


    ¡°-hurt your ego, more like. Mostly every person, sheltered or not, only can get a good gauge of who they are by the perceptions of others. One perception, well, it¡¯s just not enough, ya know? So sure, it may be annoying to try and talk with someone ya don¡¯t like, to dig down a bit more than your initial perception, but if ya wanna get to the nitty gritty, the core of a person, well, the superficial just ain¡¯t enough.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re using big words again Mo.¡± Jack commented.


    ¡°You¡¯re a gentleman, right?" Mo asked, throwing her hands up. "A gentleman should have a well balanced vocabulary¡­¡±


    ¡°Last I checked gentlemen don¡¯t get driven around by teenage girls.¡±


    ¡°Oh all the contrary, only the most refined gentlemen do that.¡±


    Jack chuckled. ¡°Alright Mo, fine.  If someone rubs me the wrong way, I¡¯ll be a bit more lenient than normal. But this doesn¡¯t apply to the fop, got it?¡±


    Mo played around with a piece of her hair. ¡°Knew you¡¯d see it my way Jack. Ya always do, in the end.¡±


    That little exchange was two weeks ago, and now, in the golf cart being driven by Officer Port-, er, Officer Feinstein, Jack begrudgingly tried to strike up a conversation. ¡°So, uh, why did ya decide to work here?¡±


    ¡°Oh the pay¡¯s well¡­ and it¡¯s pretty uneventful here.. w-w-well, least it was.¡±, the Officer answered, nervously.


    Jack awkwardly scratched his back. It was obvious that even with Mo¡¯s advice in mind, that the officer before him just wasn¡¯t a particularly complex fellow. Still, Jack felt a bit of a common ground with the man all the same. A bit of peace and quiet, with a decent living wage, those things were not ambitions Jack scoffed at. Travis, who was behind Officer Feinstein and Jack, killed the breezy mood with his foppish questions (as he usually was prone to doing.) ¡°Well anyways Officer, mind if I ask where we¡¯re heading?¡±


    The short man wiped a bit of sweat off his forehead. ¡°Oh, no problem Agent, er, Agent¡­¡±


    ¡°Davis, call me Agent Davis.¡±, the fop said, causing Jack to groan.


    ¡°Well anyways Agent Davis, we¡¯re at the main quad right now.", the short man explained. " It¡¯s where the upperclassmen dorm and also where half of the classes here at Bensen are. Right now we¡¯re heading over to the north campus. That¡¯s the freshmen halls, and the old man told me to bring y¡¯all there.¡±


    Jack raised an eyebrow. ¡°Hey, what¡¯s that big building on the right?¡±   He pointed at a large building, seven stories high or so. Like everything else at Bensen, the exterior was covered by red bricks, and the tell tale white roof was there. However, there were large glass windows spanning nearly the whole vertical stretch of the two visible sides of the building, and through squinting his eyes Jack could see about five bridges connecting platforms at different elevations inside the tall construction.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s the library.", the Officer explained. " We got that built about seven years ago. It¡¯s tall as heck, ain¡¯t it?¡±


    Travis perked up a bit. ¡°A library? Agent Harigand, we might just have to check that out later.¡±


    Jack exhaled loudly. ¡°What you do on your lonesome is no concern of mine, Davis.¡± The golfcart proceeded past the tall building, into a wooded trail.


    Travis adjusted his glasses.


    ¡°Hey, if I might ask, where are we right now?¡±


    The driver, (who Jack reckoned probably felt more like a host of twenty questions at this point), did his best to explain.


    ¡°This here is our nature trail. It leads through the woods, and past this upcoming clearing it¡¯s a straight path to the freshman dorms.¡± The little transport speeded along, and the clearing Officer Feinstein had mentioned came into view. It was pretty spacious, but there was a collection of benches scattered about, probably for some students to rest on during their jogs. Finally, after leaving the clearing and spending five minutes driving through the north end of the trail, the party of three reached the freshmen halls. Travis adjusted his tie while Jack rubbed his left bicep.


    The glorified security guard cleared his throat. ¡°Well, Agent Harigand, Agent Davis, here we are. Porter Hall and North Campus.¡±  The area they had come upon was about the size of four football fields arranged in a square. Decorated by magnolia trees and covered with green grass, it was as nice of an area as any in Bensen. There were four buildings arranged neatly, each assigned to its own quadrant. Jack had heard earlier that the buildings on the northern campus was supposed to be really nice, but much like everything at the University, it was nearly impossible to tell how nice the buildings were on the inside solely by the exterior¡¯s design.


    ¡°Oh wow, red bricks. There¡¯s a shock.¡±


    For the first time, the portly officer laughed. ¡°Hahaha, true Agent Harigand, our brickmaker ain¡¯t gonna go out of business anytime soon. But I assure you, the residence halls here are nicer than what you¡¯d see at most hotels. And the bedrooms, well, they¡¯re just great. Even if you searched the campus all night you¡¯d get plenty of beauty sleep from staying in one of these dorms.¡±


    Travis shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Well, we didn¡¯t come here to get our beauty sleep, as much as I¡¯d like to. Mind telling us where your boss is?¡±


    The voluminous guard stopped chatting. ¡°Ah, my mistake. Just thought Agent gray hair over here might have wanted to hear about what we have to offer. Officer Tracy is in Porter Hall, the building right behind  the one we¡¯re closest too. Walk straight past this one here and you¡¯ll be able to see it quite clearly. Oh, and don¡¯t make a fuss, I was just kidding bout the hair, looks fine to me, honest.¡±


    Jack tried his very best to suppress his seething rage and put on a smile. ¡°Ah no worries bout that, Officer."


    Jack got out of the golfcart and headed towards Porter Hall, in a somewhat hurried manner. He didn¡¯t turn back to see if Travis was following him. One thing Jack noticed was the odd lack of any freshmen in the so called freshmen campus. He hadn¡¯t seen any on the drive to the residences, and as he headed towards the building he presumed was Porter Hall he failed to notice a single college students. It¡¯s not to say the campus was devoid of people, far from that. There were in fact many security guards, in a higher density than Jack had ever seen before in his visits to Bensen. With the lack of students, however, the northern campus had a bit of a lonely atmosphere to it. Much like a playground without children, the freshmen residence grounds just seemed warped by the absence of the people it was constructed to host. It threw Jack off slightly, but he had a pretty good idea why there were no people.


    After walking for about two minutes, the twig in a suit caught up to him.


    ¡°Jeez, not one to wait up for people are ya Jack?¡±


    ¡°As much as it may shock you, I don¡¯t like when people poke fun at my hair.¡± Travis laughed. ¡°Haha, well not everyone can have your, uh, ¡°unique¡± color pattern of hair, Harigand. I¡¯m sure he meant no harm by it. Y¡¯know, to a security guard like him, you and I are heroes.¡±


    Jack adjusted his hat and smirked. ¡°That poor son of a bitch.¡±


    Travis was smiling now.  They had reached Porter Hall it seemed, because the wall of the building before them had a sign spelling, in gold colored letters, ¡°James K. Porter Residence Hall, established 2010."


    ¡°True, true. Well anyways, there¡¯s Porter. I¡¯m going to go ahead and talk with that older gentleman Officer Feinstein mentioned.¡±


    ¡°And what am I supposed to do, stay outside and search for clues?¡±, Jack asked.


    Travis put his hands behind his head. ¡°Nah, I don¡¯t think you¡¯re much of the type to do anything like that Jack. Just wait near the entrance until I come back. Take a walk, admire the natural beauty of the astroturf, the fine fresh aroma of the plastic flowers, that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°Alright, don¡¯t get yourself killed in there Agent Davis. I heard these old security men are real hellions.¡± Travis simply gave a two finger salute to Jack and leisurely strolled into the main entrance of Porter Hall. Jack walked away from the entrance, figuring that Travis would text him when he was done playing detective. Jack noticed something that struck him as odd. A bit southwest of Porter Hall, and a bit northeast of the building across from Porter was a small shack. As Jack walked towards the shack, he realized that it was actually directly in the middle of the four residence halls, with each edge of the shack located diagonally from the four quadrant buildings. It was essentially smack dab in the middle of the Northern campus, yet Jack had failed to notice it before.


    He wasn¡¯t bothered by it, the comments of the security guard, Officer Weinstein or something, had dulled his senses. Moments before when Jack was speed-walking towards Porter, he hadn¡¯t really bothered to take a good look around. With what Jack suspected to be a long time ahead of him, he considered checking out the small shack. He hadn¡¯t eaten yet, so maybe there was a chocolate bar or something that he could buy. Jack didn¡¯t vocalize it too much, but he loved sweet things. Mo gave him hell for it(she was more of a steak kind of girl), but Mo gave him hell for everything. Still, Jack figured the less people knew about his sweet tooth the better. Affinity for sweets was always seen as a weak point, and Jack had no pressing desire to give the fop more ammo to tease him with. Intentionally or not, Jack¡¯s feet led him right at the door of the snug building. He shrugged his shoulders and opened the small wooden door. The lobby, if it could be called a lobby, was quite simple. About ten feet from the door was a small white wooden desk, with an unoccupied swivel chair behind it.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    To Jack¡¯s disappointment, there were no vending machines or candy to be found. There was, however, an elevator to the right of the desk. The gray eyed man looked at the control panel for the lift. Jack wasn¡¯t going to have a bunch of options, it seemed, because the only button on the panel was an upside down triangle. His finger hovered over the button for a few seconds, but Jack thought better of it and put his hands in his pocket. The elevator doors opened anyways. The inside of the vertical transport was covered with mirrors, but by all other appearances seemed to be a standard elevator.


    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± Jack said, and walked in.


    The doors closed, and a slight vibration underneath Jack¡¯s shoes told him he was going down. The elevator seemed to descend for a good ten seconds before the doors opened again. The sight beyond the elevator bewildered Jack. It seemed like the elevator didn¡¯t descend at all, because the lobby Jack saw as the metal rectangles in front of him slid opened looked exactly the same.


    Jack shrugged his shoulders and walked out.


    ¡°Oh, that elevator¡¯s a tricky one. It won¡¯t take you far unless you know where you¡¯re going.¡±


    Jack¡¯s eyes spread in alert. Sitting at the white desk, there was a somewhat lanky man. Jack couldn¡¯t see his face too well, as the man was wearing a purple top hat which was tilted as to cover up most of his head. In addition to the hat, the tall figure was wearing a purple petticoat and lavender velvet pants. On his feet, the figure wore simple wooden sandals.


    ¡°Nice get up.¡±


    The lanky figure leaned back in his swivel chair and cackled. ¡°I wear it for the dance, you see. I simply adore the art of dancing.¡±


    Something about the man¡¯s voice annoyed Jack. He couldn¡¯t quite describe it exactly, but it just did not sit well with him. Jack titled his own hat and scratched his hair. ¡°So what,  this the drama building or something?¡±


    The lanky figure stood up. ¡°I suppose one could say that. This building is a smorgasbord of all matters dramatic. There¡¯s a dance going on right now, would you care to take a look?¡±


    On one hand, Jack was put off by this man. Drama building or not, the petticoat wearing man¡¯s manner was a bit too forceful for Jack¡¯s taste. However, he did have time to kill, and observing a performance certainly would make the waiting period more bearable. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll check out a dance. Just, uh, don¡¯t expect me to donate money to you or anything.¡±


    The figure in the top-hat flourished. ¡°Oh don¡¯t you worry, the dances at Bensen have been here for a long time, and they¡¯ll keep going, your contributions present or not. Now come, follow me if you would.¡±


    Jack watched the odd man get up from his swivel chair. The man walked in an odd way, almost skipping as he stepped diagonally from side to side. He went to a door, a door that had been the entrance to the shack a few floors up. ¡°Oh, excuse me for a second, I need to scan my card.¡±


    The man reached into a pocket of a petticoat and pulled out a golden card, devoid of any pictures or even a bar code. It was simply a gold colored rectangle, as big as an id card. Jack watched a skinny arm place a golden card in front of the door, and heard¡­. Absolutely nothing. No click, no movement, not a sound or movement to show that anything at all had changed. Yet apparently the card did its job, as the man opened the door shortly after.


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t introduce myself. My name is Odysseus.¡±


    Jack chuckled. ¡°Mighty unique name ya got there. Mine¡¯s Jack.¡±


    Odysseus placed both of his hands on the brim of his tilted black top hat and cracked his fingers. ¡°Well Jack, it¡¯s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.¡±


    Beyond the door was a tightly cramped hallway, barely wide enough for one person to walk down. Odysseus went down the hall first, placing both of his hands on the walls. Jack lagged about ten feet behind the taller man, placing his gloved hands in his pockets. Finally, after a short ten seconds walking at a moderate place, Jack came to a door at the end of the hallway. The door looked very simple, it was wooden, white, and rectangular. Odysseus grabbed the door and pulled it open.


    ¡°After you.  A gentleman like myself never goes first, you see.¡± Jack couldn¡¯t see much through the door, there didn¡¯t appear to be much light if any at all beyond the opening. As if noticing Jack¡¯s confusion, Odysseus chimed up.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll be able to see much more clearly once inside. Of course, with your eyes, that isn¡¯t really saying much.¡± Jack took a step into the room, but where he expected to meet concrete he instead met air. Off balance and taken by surprise, he fell face forward into the room that wasn¡¯t really a room. Wind rushed past his face as he descended. The blackness he was falling into swallowed up every last bit of light the hall behind him had to offer. Down and down Jack fell, until he couldn¡¯t tell if he was even moving at all. He couldn¡¯t see, he could hardly even feel . Yet, just when Jack thought the darkness would smother him, his body hit something soft. He was no longer falling. Jack looked above, or at least in the direction he thought was above. At first, all he could see was darkness. But slowly and steadily, small lights¡­ (from the ceiling? from the walls?) which looked like stars illuminated the room Jack had fallen into.


    ¡°Oh, sorry about the little bump. The journey to the dance hall is a bit unorthodox.¡± Groaning, Jack got up. He didn¡¯t feel much pain at all, but his heart was thumping rapidily. The fall had unsettled him, and he was more than fed up with the treatment Odysseus  had been showing him.


    ¡°Where the fuck am I?¡± Jack shouted, angry (for some reason he was a bit miffed) but also a bit confused. Drama building or not, a room with a pitfall wasn¡¯t something he¡¯d come to expect. And Jack had come to expect quite a bit from his life. The voice from nowhere rang out again.


    ¡°I told you where you were going before, didn¡¯t I? You¡¯re at the dance hall. Well, sort of. To be precise, you¡¯re at the lobby of the dance hall.¡± Now with some degree of light present, Jack got a better view of the room. He was lying on a black cushion, about the size of a basketball court. There were black walls on all four sides, but the wall in front of him had two glass doors. The glass was foggy, so Jack could only make out a swirl of color beyond them. The room, however, was nowhere near as shocking to Jack as what covered his body.


    ¡°What the-¡° Jack started to say, but stopped. There was no use wondering about the clothing he had on. There were white gloves where there used to be black gloves on his hands. His blazer was gone, replaced by a pink suit adorned with sparkles and a white rose pinned to his chest. Absent were the khaki pants, replaced by pink velvet trousers, the second part of his suit. His tie, however, remained.


    ¡°See Mr. Jack, you simply can¡¯t view the dance while not dressed in proper attire.¡±


    A figure descended from above, and Jack soon recognized Odysseus. He, however, was wearing the same ridiculous get up, apparently Odysseus¡¯s attire was dance appropriate from the get go. Odysseus pulled out the gold rectangular card used earlier, and tapped it with his right index finger.  The lights above Jack flashed, momentarily blinding him. When Jack¡¯s vision returned to normal, his gray eyes observed Odysseus holding not a card in his hand, but a golden walking cane. Jack¡¯s brain didn¡¯t even attempt to make sense of what was going on at this point.


    Odysseus twirled the cane in the air, and with a dexterity that seemed to spite his tallness, did a backflip. He tapped the black cushion, and the glass doors opened.  Odysseus cleared his throat and bowed. ¡°Right this way, my good man.¡±


    Almost immediately after the doors granted Jack passage, a melody rang out. It was a combination of a violin and an odd screeching electric whomp, not too unlike dubstep, to Jack¡¯s immense confusion. Seeing not many other options available, Jack walked through the door, Odysseus  once more right behind him. The inside of the formerly blocked room was a stark contrast to the dark cushioned pitfall. The walls, floor, and ceiling(there did seem to be a ceiling this time) were covered in spastic rainbow bursts. Jack was glad that he was did not suffer from epilepsy, because the spastic rainbow spots seemed to swap color patterns with one another every five seconds. After rubbing his eyes for a bit, Jack noticed that he was in an auditorium, of sorts.


    There were rows of theatre seats gathered about, leading to a stage. The seats also had a rainbow pattern to them, and were prone to changing colors every few seconds (It was at times like this that Jack really wished he¡¯d sprung for sunglasses.) The stage seemed fairly normal as stages went, but the people on them caused Jack to do a double take. There seemed to be about three hundred people, dressed in a similar manner to Jack and Odysseus . There was two marked differences, however. The first difference was that the people(both men and women, though some of them were a toss up) on the stage appeared to be in their late teens to early twenties. That didn¡¯t shock Jack, he was after all at a college. The second difference was that those on stage were wearing masks of a sort. The masks were transparent, but they looked like they were made out of stained glass. The stain glassed masks, combined with the rapidly shifting colors, made the faces of those on stage impossible to make out clearly. Jack felt an odd sensational on his left shoulder, and instinctively his right hand swatted the unnatural feeling. He turned his head around as fast as his neck muscles would allow. Jack¡¯s efforts were largely unwarranted; it was only Odysseus tapping him with one long white gloved finger.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it just wild? The dance, I mean.¡±


    Jack hadn¡¯t really paid attention to what the people on stage were doing, mostly due to the bizarre and colorful outwits they were wearing. Now, however, he noticed that they were moving up around, but he couldn¡¯t really call what they were doing ¡°dancing.¡± On a step in the center of the stage, there was a girl(at least Jack thought she was a girl, her chest was flat and her black hair short, but the other features seemed to him to be sufficiently feminine) The woman? moved in an unnatural way, placing her left foot over her right shoulder while twisting both arms behind the back. In spite of this, she somehow managed to maintain her balance with only her right leg in a normal position. It was an impressive, if rather painful, demonstration of her? flexibility. What happened next caused Jack¡¯s gray eyes to open wide, even wider than they had been open before. All of the other dancers, from the tallest and most fit to the pudgiest and shorter bunch of the group followed, almost to a T, the movements of the elevated dancer. Even without being able to make out the full facial feature of the dancers, Jack could tell that most of them were in severe discomfort, if not outright agony. They were too tense, the dance was too forced. Of course, the inherent wrongness of the display was only natural. Even a contortionist would have trouble pulling off the twists the dancers were performing. The lead dancer twisted her? limbs even more, putting her? head between her? thighs and crossing her? legs like a pretzel. A screeching sound echoed from the lead dancer¡¯s neck, a sound unnatural and disconcerting to be sure.


    Jack covered his ears hard with his gloved hands, but the muffling of his hearing did little to drown out the sound. It was obvious that the lead was in pain, yet she kept on contorting and twisting his body. To Jack¡¯s utter bewilderment, the rest of the dancers followed in step, twisting their bodies as the lead did. Their groans of discomfort were even harsher, leading to a horrible cacophony echoing through the satire of a dance theatre. Jack couldn¡¯t take it anymore.


    ¡°If it hurts them that goddamn much¡± he said, gesturing at the people on stage, ¡°then why the hell are they twisting their bodies like that?¡±


    Odysseus  giggled and cleared his throat. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s simple. Because they were selected.¡±


    Jack scratched the back of his neck. ¡°Selected?¡±


    Odysseus  twirled his cane in the air. ¡°You see, not many people get to dance like this. Many people apply, but only a select few get to do it.¡±


    ¡°Who the hell would want to do something like that? It¡¯s painful and pointless!¡±


    Odysseus shrugged his shoulders. ¡°You use the phrase ¡°pointless¡± a bit too easily.  Performing this dance is a privilege, an honor.¡±


    Jack shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Make all the flowery excuses you want, but tell me, what do they get out of it? It¡¯s easy to say it¡¯s a privilege to do something stupid and senseless, but that doesn¡¯t mean there are any tangible benefits.¡±


    Odysseus jumped up and down and clapped his hands excitedly. ¡°Oh, Jackie boy, you¡¯re catching on! There¡¯s ¨Cnothing- tangible about it, true. The value is only that which the dancers put on it. But therein lies the brilliance!¡±


    ¡°Funny, the only thing brilliant about this ¡°dance¡± is that no one has broken a leg, somehow.¡±


    ¡°No, no, no, you don¡¯t understand. If the dancers determine the value of the dance, the movement that you see before you can transcend common limitations. What you call ¡°painful and pointless¡± can become of the utmost importance, can become something as critical as breathing!¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t that like staring at a random bunch of colors and pretending to see a dinosaur or something?¡±


    Odysseus shook his head. ¡°No, far from it. When a so called artist does that, he or she is just making things up, finding aspects that do not exist. But this dance, this movement, it is tied down to those who partake in it. The dancers are the cause, the dance the effect. Eventually, the dance becomes so significant that it influences those who created it, and those who have the potential to create it. It¡¯s beautiful, if you think about it. An abstract concept becomes real, something imaginary ends up affecting something tangible.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just going to have to disagree with you here, Odysseus . Doing something painful simply because you and others view it as important is little more than intellectual masturbation, if you ask me.¡±


    Odysseus  gritted his teeth.


    ¡°Gah, I expected more from you Jack, you seemed like a cultured man.¡±


    Jack shrugged his shoulders. ¡°You screwed the pooch on that one then. I¡¯m about as cultured as the State Fair, and about as complex as deep fried butter on a stick.¡±


    Odysseus  sighed. ¡°I take it, then, that you don¡¯t want to watch this dance until it finishes?¡±


    ¡°No, and even if I did, I have somewhere to be. My smug associate wanted me to meet him outside Porter Hall, and I think I¡¯m running short on time.¡±


    Odysseus  let out another childish giggle. ¡°Oh, you won¡¯t need to be worrying about that, Jackie.¡±


    Jack groaned. ¡°Name¡¯s Jack, not Jackie.  Always will be. And I need to be going back now, so if you¡¯d hand me back the clothes I came in with and show me the way out I¡¯d be mighty grateful.¡±


    Odysseus  pulled Jack close to him and smiled a jagged smile. The taller man¡¯s teeth were sparkling white, but at the same time looked almost like plastic. ¡°I¡¯ll take you back now, ¡°Agent¡± Harigand. But this won¡¯t be the last time we meet.¡±


    Odysseus  lifted up his hat, and Jack struggled to break the hold Odysseus had on his arms. His teeth and nose looked fine, but his eyes..well, more accurately, eye¡­ It was as if Odysseus was wearing a white headband that stretched around his head. Except there was no headband. The white stripe that circled the tall man¡¯s skull was a shiny, somewhat veiny looking sclera. The sclera was as tall as an eye was, yet there was no pupil present. It was just a grotesque strip of white, from ear to ear. Odysseus leaned and whispered into Jack¡¯s right ear.


    ¡°I wonder, Jack. Will you come to understand the dance, or simply remain an ignorant observer?¡± Jack formed a knuckle with his left fist, closed his eyes, and struck at the man violating his personal space with all the might his constricted limb could manage. Though he usually couldn¡¯t tell, he felt his hand strike something hard. His eyes opened.


    He was no longer in the twisted theatre, and his clothing, from his black gloves to his khakis, were back to normal. Jack¡¯s left fist had made a bit of a scratch on an otherwise pristine magnolia tree. Jack took a look around; he was standing in a concrete rectangle scattered with wooden benches, right in the middle of the four quads. The time on his watch read Eleven Forty.

 Green II

    The more you agree with someone, the more intelligent they¡¯ll think you are. Of course, you can¡¯t be BLATANT about it. You can¡¯t half-heartily brown nose a person, oh no no no. To gain someone¡¯s favor, you have to put all of your passion into agreeing with him or her, doing your very best to validiate their every word. Emily found the best way to get people to like her was to ask questions she knew the answer to. But it couldn¡¯t just be ANY question. The question had to fulfill two categories. The first category was that it had to be abstract. Queries should never be a question of objective fact such as ¡°What time is it?¡± or ¡°On what date did Columbus discover America?¡±


    No, asking such questions would just expose Emily as an inane idiot. The questions Emily asked were more ingenious, perhaps even slightly devious. They should have been by all rights treated as inane as asking the time was, but the queries offered something too irresistible for most people to pass up: the opportunity to brag. You see, the best questions to ask are not ¡°What¡± questions, but ¡°Why¡± questions. ¡°What¡± a person, animal or thing did is easy enough for most people to answer quickly and precisely, as what an elephant did would not change too much from person to person.


    Everyone knows what a deceased and depressed actor did, as soon as someone reports the sight of his swaying body there is little to question in regards to how he or she ascended to Valhalla. But ¡°why¡±, well, the ¡°why¡± is what fills up ten pages in the morning paper. Speculation, arguments, theses, antitheses, stuff of that nature is what people live for. So while Emily would NEVER dream of asking the time, would never even think of asking what Columbus did to get to the America, and would not consider inquiring the exact translation of a particular Spanish word, she WOULD ask her history professor Columbus¡¯s motives for sailing the ocean blue, and she would, with an earnest look in her grass green eyes, ponder what sort of construct time was exactly.


    Nine times out of ten, these questions would lead the person to whom they were directed to go off on a long speech about Columbus¡¯s complex backstory, about different philosophies on the meaning of time, and about the fascinating roots of Spanish language. Through this method of asking questions that really meant nothing at all, Emily managed to participate in class without really saying anything, much less learning anything. But her lack of knowledge was not noticed by most people. No, most people would smile a wide smile when they saw Emily, and say to their friends and colleagues what a smart young girl Emily was.


    Most of them, be they teachers, students, or janitors, had no idea that Emily has in fact said nothing, that all she did was give them a venue in which they could express their life-view to a captive audience. Emily didn¡¯t feel guilty in the slightest for doing this. After all, if people wanted to talk, what was so bad about giving them an opportunity to? It¡¯s not like she was harming anyone by asking questions she really didn¡¯t need to know. And if it prevented her grades from plummeting, well, so be it. Humans tend to be social creatures, and symbiotic relations are nothing new with that considered.


    So, when Emily headed up to the second floor of Porter and knocked on the door of a Lucas Hoffman, a painter with a moderate amount of skill, she knew exactly what question to ask.


    ¡°Hey Lucas, why do you paint?¡±


    Lucas was tall, tan, and had jet black hair, which he combed forward to the point where his left eye was almost consistently covered by his bangs. He was attractive, if one was predisposed to finding androgynous men attractive. His attire was nothing spectacular or flamboyant, he usually wore a warm colored t-shirt and a pair of white shorts, with gray flip flops to seal the deal. As for his artistic ability, Emily¡¯s sculpting blew his pitiful attempts out of the water by a long shot. But his paintings, well, they were something else entirely. Lucas¡¯s paintings were an orgy of clashing colours and distorted figures.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    The figures in his paintings tended to be grotesque shrunken reflections of reality. Due to the extreme thinness that permeated nearly all of his paintings, Lucas took to calling himself ¡°Botero¡¯s anorexic cousin.¡± Of course, Emily didn¡¯t particularly care for creepy looking figures, unless they were made out of clay and through the exclusive care of her own two hands. No, she actually just wanted to exploi-, er, that is to say, utilize Lucas¡¯s more base talent. In essence, what Emily aimed to do was not very different from asking a Professor with a PHD in Linear Algebra to do some basic addition. Dani wanted a poster for the track meet, and Emily would provide the Methodist Marathoners with a good one, her own substandard painting ability be damned. Ah, but her goals and motivations, at this moment they were of little consequence to Lucas.


    ¡°Why do I paint, you ask?¡± said Lucas, as he blinked his eyes and looked down at Emily. ¡°Why does the sun rise? Why does the cock crow?¡± and here Lucas started making sweeping gestures with his arms. ¡°I paint because it is in my nature to. Much like¡­¡± and then Lucas smiled a devious smile ¡°you ask sweepingly vague questions because it¡¯s in your nature to.¡±


    Emily¡¯s cheeks turned red.


    ¡°No need to be so¡­¡± Lucas raised his voice, perhaps twelve octaves louder than he should have. ¡°SUBTLE!¡± Emily let out a small cough. ¡°Oh, DO TELL ME what it IS that you REALLY¡­¡± Lucas was swaggering back and forth now, gesturing wildly with his arms on every word he spoke. And then, in a soft voice, Lucas whispered: ¡°desire.¡±


    Emily giggled despite herself. ¡°Shoot, you got me. Fine, fine.  Would you mind doing me a favor?¡±


    Lucas put on a faux-cautious air. ¡°That depends, oh foul witch. But what favor would you ask of me?¡±


    The sculptor sighed, once Lucas went on a tangent it was nearly impossible for him to stop.


    ¡°Um, could you, uh, paint something for me?¡±


    Lucas chuckled. ¡°I reckon I could, but it depends. What do you need me to paint, and for what reason?¡±


    ¡°Oh, just a little poster for the track team. Dani asked me to make something for the upcoming meet, but I kinda suck at painting.¡± At the mention of the D-word, Lucas¡¯s brown eyes started to sparkle.


    ¡°Of course I¡¯d be c-c-chill with painting something for Dani, you should have just said that from the get go. But¡­ can I ask you a favor in return?¡±


    Emily crossed her arms. ¡°Depends on the favor.¡±


    Lucas bowed and grinned nervously.


    ¡°Oh, just tell Danielle that I¡¯m going to a L-Lambda Kai party tonight and that I¡¯d be really happy if she showed up.¡±


    ¡°No problem Luke, I¡¯ll tell her.¡± Emily found Luke¡¯s crush on her athletic roommate cute, if at times a bit obsessive. Deep down though, Emily knew that Luke¡¯s efforts would be a fruitless one. She¡¯d never see Dani express much of a romantic interest in anyone, much less a effeminate goofball like Luke.


    ¡°Just wondering Luke, why do you go to so many Dekes parties? Planning on pledging?¡±


    ¡°Nah, that ain¡¯t for me." Lucas answered. "I like Dekes cause the guys there are chill, a bit less intense then most of the other frats, y¡¯dig homeslice?¡± Emily brushed some dust off of her shoulders.


    ¡°Oh, that makes sense, I guess.¡± Emily didn¡¯t think it made much sense at all, actually. If you¡¯re going to binge drink, you might as well binge drink at a place that is energetic. The gentlemen of Delta Kappa Epsilon might as well have worn boyscout uniforms, because they had a reputation for being polite to a fault. In fact, the Bensen chapter only started serving alcohol at their campus longue and off campus house ten years ago(at least that was what Emily had been told by her friend Sharon, and Sharon was very wise in these things). Before then, most people would have trouble separating them from Christian Students United.


    When Emily went out, on the rare occasions that she felt like doing so, she¡¯d go to Pi Kappa Phi. Pi Kappa Phi had a reputation for being the ¡°Animal House¡± of Bensen, with all the substance abuse, sordid sexual acts, and structural damage that dubious title implied. She knew nearly everything about the infamous greek society, from the year it was founded(1889) to the ingredients in their ¡°secret¡± punch(mostly sugar, food dye, artificial cherry flavor and a varying but liberal amount of vodka.)


    ¡°Well anyways Luke, thanks a bunch. I¡¯ll be back later to pick up the poster.¡±


    Lucas bowed. ¡°No trouble. If I¡¯m not in my dorm just ask my RA to open it, he¡¯s super-chill.¡±


    Emily smiled, and for the first time in the conversation her grin wasn¡¯t forced or rigid in the slightest.


    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡±

 Red - 1

    You have to be joking. She has to be kidding. No way, Grandpa can¡¯t be dead. It¡¯s not fair, it¡¯s not fair at at all.


    ¡°I would never joke about this, Iris. Listen, I know he was close to you, an-¡°


    Of course he was close to me, you moron. He¡¯s more or less my grandfather. Hey, Marisa, you look like shit, what happened to you?


    ¡°First off, you¡¯re like eleven, stop using those bad words. There was a car accident. Your ¡°grandfather¡± didn¡¯t make it. I did, and that¡¯s that.¡±


    But you look hurt. I mean, your face is all bumbly and ugly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. Anyways, I didn¡¯t just come here to tell you that. You trust me, right?¡±


    She sounds angry. I hope she¡¯s not angry at me. S-sure I trust you. Grandma¡¯s gonna be upset when she finds out, though.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°She already knows.¡±


    I guess that¡¯s why she looked so sad before.


    ¡°Well, we have to go away for a bit. We¡¯re not going to be gone forever, just for a year or so. Remember when you went to Hawaii?¡±


    That was fun! Dad got me a shaved ice, and we petted dolphins, and grandpa taught me how to shoot a gun, and-


    ¡°Yeah, well this time we¡¯re going to go to a place like that. But we won¡¯t take a plane, we¡¯ll take a boat.¡±


    Are you picking on me?


    ¡°Of course no-¡°


    Come on, stop being so mean. You¡¯re playing a prank on me, Grandpa¡¯s fine, right?


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m not lying to you. Have I ever lied to you?¡±


    The whole thing is weird. I mean, I guess I can understand Grandpa not being around anymore, that happened to mom and dad before, but why do we have to go to Hawaii? You¡¯re bullying me, right? Just because I¡¯m young doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m s-s-stupid.


    ¡°We¡¯re not going to Hawaii. Just think of it as a little game of hide and seek. We can even give each other codenames. Call me Lee from now on.¡±


    Oh, oh, I¡¯ve thought of a good name. Can you call me Agent Awesome?


    ¡°Uh,  on second thought, I¡¯ll think of a name for you. Something shorter and prettier, maybe.¡±


    Iris is short and pretty enough, thank you!

 Blue III

    Travis hardly ever felt envy. He grew up in a nice enough home, with nice enough parents, in a nice enough neighborhood. He received a nice enough education, and had a nice enough job. Still, as he walked into the main lobby of Porter Hall, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a hint of longing. There were several black leather couches that would very much spice up his basement room, so nice that perhaps even Tex would opt to sleep on one instead of on Travis¡¯s legs, for a change. Though the exterior of the building was, of course, little more than red bricks and a white roof, the interior of Porter was absolutely beautiful. The walls looked nice enough, with a blue and white paint pattern. Somehow, the carpenter in charge of the construction had managed to put seagull shaped indentations in the walls, giving the lobby a very ¡°oceany¡± feel.  Travis suspected that on a normal day, the lobby would be packed with freshmen, as they chatted about one subject or another.


    Today was not a normal day; he knew that as soon as he saw the tents on the main campus. Now, most people, when they see yellow police lines, they tend to stay a good deal away from the plastic barriers. The strips serve as a warning, as a natural deterrence. But for Travis, the yellow strips were directions to where he had to go. The stairs were blocked by the yellow strips that stated ¡°Police Line ¨C Do not cross¡±, so naturally he crossed the lines and headed up the stairs.


    Oddly enough, there were no Bensen University Police Officers in the building, despite Porter being evacuated the night before. Travis knew that a senior officer requested his aid in Porter, so it was rather odd that such an apparently important location would be so devoid of people. The students, well, the students absence made sense. Whatever had happened(and Travis was becoming increasingly sure that something major had happened)was of a magnitude that the students couldn¡¯t be present. If what happened, whatever that may have been, was critical enough to force the students out, then why were there no police in the building? There were plenty outside and on the freshmen campus¡¯s perimeter, so why there were none inside was remarkably strange to Travis.


    Though odd, it didn¡¯t really slow Travis¡¯s progress through the building. He knew he was supposed to meet an officer Garret on the second floor, so the lack of any people whatsoever didn¡¯t really stay on his mind too long. One interesting thing that Travis noticed was that all the doors in the building were open, some crudely held in place by duct tape. In fact, even the door he had come in through was partly open. Small oddities almost always led to larger strangeness, much like a small trickle of moisture from a crack in a wall hints towards an impending flood. Travis shrugged his shoulders, he¡¯d make it a point to ask Officer Garret about the open doors later.


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    The lights were on in the staircase, dim but still present.  As he headed up the stairs, he couldn¡¯t help but notice the windows on the far side of the stairwell wall. Their shape was fairly ordinary, three semi circles arranged in a horizontal line. Yet, somehow, be it through the composition of the glass or the positioning of the frame, each of the windows managed to cast a shadow, a shadow which gave the marble stairs at Travis¡¯s feet a light and dark checkerboard pattern. Finally, Travis got up to the second floor. There were two semi-open doors in the second floor lobby, but only the left door had a ¡°Do Not Enter¡± sign in front of it.


    Naturally, Travis entered the left door. The left door gave way to a hallway, and from the colorful decorations on the doors in the hallway Travis concluded that he was in the female wing. Of course, there were no students present. The doors here were not opened partway, and Travis¡¯s tugs on every other door¡¯s handle as he progressed down the hallway hinted that all the doors were locked. Finally, about seven or eight doors down the lonely hallway, Travis saw signs of other intelligent life. He came to a wide opening in the hallway, but the floor here was covered with plastic sheets.


    The optimist in Travis told him that some freshmen had too much to drink, the realist in him simply made his stomach feel slightly heavy. He had seen similar plastic sheets laid out before, and they always spelled trouble and tragedy. He clenched his fist. What the hell had happened here? And why was he in the dark about it? Was it neglect? Was it incompetence? Just who the hell felt it appropriate to send someone like Travis to somewhere like this without at least informing him first?  He understood the Chik Fil A thing, as tedious and asinine as it was. The Chik Fil A thing was low stea-, er, stakes.


    No one was harmed, and the most damage inflicted was on Travis¡¯s sanity. He shook his head. Malicious forces cause trouble and damage, but lack of communication and stupidity often exasperate the problems caused by the malevolent aspects of the world. He took a quick glance again at the white plastic covering, and saw that the sheets took a sharp right about two hundred feet from where he was. Travis speed walked down the hall, his blue eyes not even bothering to scan the hall for irrelevant details anymore. The plastic sheets which headed right stopped at a metal door. There was no handle on the door, but it had a vertical metal rectangle located on where a handle would usually be.


    Travis swallowed some excess saliva in his mouth and pushed the door open. And then blue met with brown.

 Brown - 2

    Peter could be pretty jealous at times. It wasn¡¯t a resentment that he felt, but a longing. When a happy young couple said hello to him in the morning he¡¯d smile and wave back, yet at the same time feel a tinge of regret and remorse for never getting to have a serious relationship. Peter figured it was the price he had to pay for ignoring his biological imperative. However, he felt like he could be excused for that line of thinking. Humans are social creatures, and sexual ones at that, so it¡¯s only natural to feel uncomfortable around happy couples. So Peter felt that his jealously in that regard was justifiable. There were some things that he just wished he could have out of greed, though. Youth was one, hair was another, but those two things only became a concern as he grew old. Those two desires were as much jealously as they were a form of persisting nostalgia, really. He had one sinful desire, something he wished for the majority of his life. And that was to be tall. Peter felt tallness was like playing life with a sizeable (if you would forgive the pun) handicap.


    People looked up to you (lo siento), they hardly ever talked down to you (gomensai), and you could really reach new heights (sega) . Now, Peter was of average height for a man, five feet and ten inches. It was useful enough, because being of average height he was taller than most women, who typically average out at five feet and four inches, give or take an inch. It meant he could assist most people who needed assistance. Yet, he still envied those behemoths who stood at six feet or higher. Twas simply a personal desire that Peter would never get to fulfill. So it was of no surprise that Peter took almost an instinctive dislike of the blonde haired twig sharing the women¡¯s restroom with him.


    A mere glance at the blue eyed young-un confirmed some of Peter¡¯s less charitable views on ¡°government men.¡± The boyish man before him was dressed in a neat black suit with a neat blue tie and wore neat little glasses on his neat little head. Peter barely got up from his folding chair when the twig started to barrade him with questions.


    ¡°You Officer Garret? What happened here? And why didn¡¯t you call me?¡±


    Peter sighed and rubbed his left knee.


    ¡°Easy boy. Yes, I¡¯m Officer Garret. As for why I called for your group¡¯s assistance, well, that¡¯s a bit of a longer story.¡±


    The taller man adjusted his glasses and glared at Peter.


    ¡°I drove two and a half hours to get here, so trust me when I say a lengthy story won¡¯t be a major concern for me.¡±


    Peter continued to rub his knee. ¡°Alright, Agent Travis¡­ Davis is it? Well, to put it bluntly, someone died last night.¡±


    Travis flinched for a second, and then regained his composure.


    ¡°Oh wow, and you thought it would be a fantastic idea to leave out that little detail till now, right?¡±


    The blonde man was agitated. Truth be told, he seemed to have an antagonistic aura about him even before he entered the room.


    Peter coughed. ¡°I can explain my reasons for that.¡±


    Travis sighed. ¡°Fine, I¡¯m all ears. While you¡¯re at it, mind explaining why the heck we¡¯re in the ladies restroom?¡±


    Peter began pacing the bathroom¡¯s tile floor, limping slightly as he did.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll make it short for you. Last night I was on patrol. The power went out, so I had to go into the residence halls to make sure everyone was ok.¡±


    The tall blonde chewed on his left pinky.


    ¡°Is that power outage related to why most of the doors here are wide open?¡±


    Peter nodded. ¡°Yeah, we use an electronic lock system. Most kids are out of the dorms around my patrol, but there¡¯s always a few who end up locked in.¡± The agent¡¯s eyes light up.


    ¡°Oh, I get it. Some poor student got locked in an tightly packed area without access to an inhaler or something and died, right?¡±


    Peter¡¯s brown eyes rolled back. ¡°If that were the case, you wouldn¡¯t be here. No, I¡¯m afraid what happened was not quite an accident, although I can¡¯t say for sure that it wasn¡¯t an accident either.¡±


    Davis looked puzzled. ¡°Might I see the, er, body?¡±


    Peter shook his head. ¡°Nah, a nice young lady from another branch of yours is looking at it right now. Autospies are not exactly our thing. We¡¯re the local police force, but we lack the resources to perform any real fancy stuff. Besides, the coroner lives very close to the school anyways, so we found it prudent to accept her aid.¡°


    The blonde man nodded his head., apparently taking Peter¡¯s statement at face value.


    ¡°Yeah, you guys sure are lacking for money here at Bensen. How nice of the government to provide y¡¯all with some aid.¡±


    Peter continued, undeterred by the twig¡¯s barbs. ¡°Well, anyways, you wanna see the body you talk to that black haired lady later. As I was saying, it was not quite an accident. I checked the basement for students, there were none. Went up here, and I discovered two girls. At first I though they had too much to drink, they were both outside the bathroom and lying down on the floor¡­¡±


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    ¡°Freshmen will be freshmen¡±


    ¡°-but then I noticed something that didn¡¯t smell like alcohol. And when I got close enough, I saw that the girls weren¡¯t lying in just a pool of regurgitated fried chicken. The one to the right, she was fine. Fine in the sense that she wasn¡¯t injured.¡±


    The Agent played around with his glasses. ¡°Oh really? Tell me more about this ¡°uninjured¡± girl.¡±


    ¡°Well, she was crying, shaking, as anyone would be in her situation. I wasn¡¯t of sound mind myself.¡± Travis glared at Peter again, with his icy blue eyes.


    ¡°Yet you seemed to imply there was something wrong with her¡­¡± Peter scratched at his collarbone for a second.


    ¡°Well, she started yammering about a man being right behind me who was apparently preoccupied with stabbing me. At the time I thought it was hysteria, but¡­¡±


    The twig held up his hand and cut Peter off. ¡°We¡¯ll get back to that later. Tell me about the other girl.¡±


    Peter sighed. ¡°As I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve figured out by this point, the girl lying on the ground, she.. she wasn¡¯t really doing so well.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± Agent Travis Davis asked.


    ¡°The first thing I noticed was the large volume of blood. It was coming from the girl¡¯s mouth, you see. But it wasn¡¯t quite blood, I figured a bit of it was mucus, and from the smell vomit as well.¡±


    The agent adjusted his glasses yet again. ¡°Was she injured in the stomach anywhere?¡±


    Peter shook his head. ¡°Nope. I thought the same thing at the time, but the only wounds on her were on her thighs.¡±


    ¡°What type of wounds?¡±


    ¡°Lacerations. Cuts on her thighs.¡±, Peter answered. He quietly left the part about the victim''s eyes being cut out, figuring that Agent Dipshit would be informed of that by the autospy.


    ¡°Well, what the hell did they look like?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get the chance to see that later on when you talk to the young lady performing the autopsy. But¡­ the wounds were caused by scissors.¡±


    The man closer to the door raised his boyish voice. ¡°Oh?¡± And just how do you know that?¡±


    ¡°Because a pair of them were sticking out of her thighs.¡±


    ¡°And you didn¡¯t remove them? Or at least try to stop the bleeding?¡±


    Peter clasped his hands and met the tall man¡¯s focused blue eyes with his mildly watery brown ones. ¡°Well first off, you never just pluck out intruding blades of any sort. Doubly so when they are stuck in as deep as these scissors were. Second off,  I checked her pulse, she wasn¡¯t breathing. Third off, I did compress the wounds using a cloth and called for the campus EMT. They pronounced her dead when they arrived on the scene. I¡¯m old, Agent Davis¡­¡±


    Peter tightened his face and scowled ¡°¡­but I¡¯m not stupid.¡±


    The tall blonde twig in a suit took out a lighter and a cigarette. ¡°Mind if I?¡±


    Peter raised an eyebrow. He¡¯d lived in the south all of his life, and he never really could get smoking. Well, smoking of tobacco, that is. Drinking and cannabis, he understood that. But tobacco seemed pointless, because it had all, if not more, of the health risk of alcohol and weed without any of the, er, ¡°benefits.¡± Also, and this was Peter¡¯s biggest issue with smoking, most people who did it did it to look cool. It was sort of like a person who insists on wearing an awful looking hat to stand out, but a hundred times worse.


    ¡°Of course I mind. Besides, the alarm will go off you dol-¡±


    Agent Davis flicked the lighter, and took a drag on his cancer stick. ¡°Funny Officer Garret, ain¡¯t no alarm going off now.¡±


    Peter scratched his gray hair. ¡°Just how the heck did you know that alarm wouldn¡¯t go off, son? Did you tamper with the electronics before you got here just so you could get your nicotine fix?¡±


    The smoking man shook his head slowly. ¡°Nah, I wish that were the case. Just wondering Officer Garret, these EMTs, did they show up in an ambulance, golf cart, something like that?¡±


    Peter shook his head. ¡°Actually, no. They¡¯re about fifteen minutes out, which usually means they¡¯d drive over here someway. They just came in through the back door. All the better I suppose, it prevented them from making a scene.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, but their tendency towards subtlety may have also prevented that girl¡¯s survival.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t follow you. Anyways, the time didn¡¯t matter, the EMTs said the girl was long dead. A few minutes wouldn¡¯t have mattered¡±  Agent Davis took another long puff on his mint filtered tobacco roll. ¡°Well, tell me what you know about the girl. The dead one, first.¡±


    Peter raised his eye brow. A girl had died, and the smug jerk was regarding her as he¡¯d regard the weather. ¡°I didn¡¯t know much about her. Didn¡¯t even know her name really. Apparently she did track or something.¡±


    Agent Travis Davis nodded his head slowly. ¡°Alright, tell me about the girl with the hysteria. What was she going on about?¡±


    Peter chewed on his cheek, and then cleared his throat. ¡°Well as I said, she was yammering about a man who was stabbing me. Said he had stabbed the girl on the ground. At first I was spooked out of my mind, but then I realized she was just seeing things. Found out later that those scissors on the floor, they belonged to her.¡±


    The blonde man took one last drag out of his breath defreshener and crushed it underneath his shiny black shoes. ¡°I take it she¡¯s in custody right now?¡±


    Peter half-smiled. ¡°Sort of. We don¡¯t want to make a big scene, not just yet, so she¡¯s locked in her dorm room with another officer. She¡¯s been asleep for a few hours. Neither he nor I have been able to get anything sensible out of her.¡±


    Travis smirked.


    ¡°Which, I figure, is why I¡¯m here with my sunflower of a partner. Alright, well, I¡¯m going to go talk to that girl.¡± Peter frowned. Even without either of them outright saying it, the truth of the previous evening was fairly evident. A bout of insanity had ended not one innocent life, but two. As Peter watched the tall, mildly smug man exit the room, he prayed to any deity out there that things wouldn¡¯t get anymore tough for the poor girl unconscious a few doors down.


    ¡°Wait, Agent Davis¡­ before you go¡­¡±


    The blonde man looked at Peter with a somewhat puzzled face. ¡°throw out that goddamn cigarette.¡± Agent Davis blushed, scooped up the crushed debris, mumbled an insincere farewell and went on his way. Peter wondered if Agent Davis was an actor, because he played the role of the ¡°Pretentious Federal Agent¡± very well. Still, the man was craftier than he seemed. His smoking, Peter figured, wasn¡¯t done out of a need for a nicotine fix.


    Peter opened his old mouth and let out a good old yawn. There was more work to be done, and hell to be paid once the little incident got out. He and his force had done a good job of keeping things under wrap, but that was mostly due to the ¡°serendipity¡± (if one could even call what happened the night before serendipitous) of the power failing. The only people who knew anything about the death of the athlete were select elements of Peter¡¯s police force, the EMTs, and these federal know it alls. Still, Peter had a feeling soon everyone on campus would learn of the gouged out eye murder.

 Gray – 4

    Jack didn¡¯t consider himself to be crazy. He was anti-social to an extent, sure. Knew some people who were crazy, certainly. And he definitely had odd sleeping patterns. But he felt his grasp on reality was fairly decent, most of the time. Well, at least half of the time.  So what the heck had just happened? Less than two minutes had passed since his ¡°tour¡± of the ¡°theatre¡± with that bizarre fellow who called himself Odysseus , a tour that felt like an hour but lasted less than a minute. Jack knew he imagined all of that nonsense, but he couldn¡¯t quite remember falling asleep or anything that would even hint at a loss of sanity. But what he had experienced was simply too strange to be considered real.


    Jack smirked, at least his dreams/delusions/panic attacks were interesting, even if his job wasn¡¯t. The Fop(by which he meant Travis)¡¯s dreams probably involved winning an employee of the month award, or staring in a tv show. Something stupid and self-promoting for sure. The fop had told Jack to wait for him, but Jack felt like if he waited any longer he¡¯d have another dumb-ass dream or something similarly retarded. So Jack headed back to Borter Hall or whatever the hell that place was called. The front entrance was locked shut, to Jack¡¯s irritation. He¡¯d seen the Fop just stroll in with that smug grin on his face only minutes before, so why did he  have to be poor the sap locked out? Jack gritted his teeth, this little obstacle would not deter him.


    He walked around Porter¡¯s perimeter until he came across a door at the bottom of a staircase leading into what appeared to be the basement area of the building. The door was slightly ajar. Figuring this was as good of an opportunity as he was going to get, Jack pulled the handle of the door towards him, then tried turned the handle. The handle wouldn¡¯t budge. It was no big concern to Jack however, because the door still opened. Jack went inside the building and the door closed behind him with a click. Jack tried opening the door once he was inside, no such luck. The entry way led into a lobby of sorts, it was about as large as an average bedroom.   The basement of Porter was gaudy, even gaudier than most of the facilities at Bensen tended to be. The floor was, of course, shiny marble, and the wall¡¯s had a pretentious blue and white pattern to them. In fact, looking at the wall from the vantage point of the door, Jack could almost see a boat sailing on the wall. Jack blinked his eyes, no, there was definitely a small boat located on the far side of the wall, set far in the background. He scanned the lobby to find another door, but he couldn¡¯t find one. He was surrounded by three walls with tacky paint and a door behind him that wouldn¡¯t open, no matter how hard Jack pushed. Jack was irritated now(well, moreso than he usually was.) In his anger, he made a fist with his left and punched the wall to the right of him¡­ or at least he attempted to.


    To Jack¡¯s immense disdain, he put a bit too much force into his blow and tumbled towards the wall. Jack winced and shut his eyes, at this angle his face would make contact with the tacky paint of the wall, which would chip both the paint and his teeth. But Jack¡¯s face didn¡¯t fall into a hard wooden wall, what he felt hit his face was cold and damp. His eyes shot open, and he realized, to his immense confusion, that he had fallen into a large body of water. His clothing was quickly rendered heavy by the icy water, severely hampering his efforts to stay afloat. Jack tried to say a bad word, but all he could manage was a ¡°MDRFUGHER¡± before the water, apparently salty, got into his throat. He spluttered the unwelcome liquid from his mouth, using all of his leg strength to kick himself above the admittedly tepid liquid. Still, as nonviolent as the water was, he needed to get to land quickly.


    Maybe there was a way back into the lobby? Jack looked behind him, there was no lobby to fall back into. The scenario made no sense, it was utterly absurd, but Jack was more concerned about not drowning than he was about the logical implications of being caught in a vast ocean that shouldn¡¯t by any means exist. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw something that hopefully wasn¡¯t water. He squinted his gray eyes, and noticed ¡­ a ship. A wooden one to be precise, as if it were fresh out of a cheesy pirate film. Heck, it even had a set of black sails with skulls and crossbones on it. Jack lifted up his right arm and pushed forward, and with a bit more effort, proceeded to do the same with his left arm. With some additional frantic kicking and five minutes of sweaty busy work, he reached the hull of the ship.


    Unfortunately, Jack hadn¡¯t worked out how to get on the ship, he figured he¡¯d work that out at a time when he wasn¡¯t drowning. Shockingly, Jack found that being near a ship while treading water took exactly as much effort as treading water away from a ship. A bit of water splashed into his face, making Jack blink his eyes involuntarily. When he regained his vision, he saw a rope had been tossed down from the hull. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jack climbed up the rope onto the ship. He collapsed on the floor, and coughed up a decent amount of salty water. As he was catching his breath, he felt something tap his right shoulder. He turned around as quickly as his muscles could manage, and found¡­. Odysseus .


    Jack groaned.


    ¡°Oh for fuck¡¯s sake, what the hell are you doing here?¡± Odysseus, who was wearing a blue and white sailor¡¯s uniform raised an ¡°eye¡±brow.


    ¡°You¡¯re honestly asking what a guy named Odysseus is doing on a boat?" the cyclops thing asked. "Seriously?¡±


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    Jack looked Odysseus in his weird spherical eye thing.


    ¡°Alright, allow me to rephrase my question. Why am I on a boat when I should be in a college dorm building?¡±


    Odysseus  giggled. ¡°Oh come now, you¡¯re not honestly expecting a rational answer to that, are you? Just be glad I picked you up here.¡±


    Jack shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Alright, y¡¯know what, screw it. I¡¯ll sort this out later with my friend John Daniels.¡±


    Odysseus looked at Jack quizzically. ¡°Don¡¯t you mean Jack?¡±


    Jack shook his head. ¡°When you know him as long as I have, you call him John. Keeps things simple. Anyways, I ain¡¯t even going to attempt to rationalize you, or this ocean, or this ship. But I am going to ask you how to get back to Porter Hall.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s easy enough. We¡¯re heading there right now." Odysseus said. "We just have to navigate through an ocean of a different kind first.¡±


    ¡°An ocean of a different what?¡±, Jack asked.


    ¡°Well, right now we¡¯re in very still waters. Easy enough to understand and pass through, but if we don¡¯t move on to another body of liquid we¡¯ll be as stationary as this ocean here is. We need to head into an ocean with flow, with movement, with ¡­ and¡­ dare I say it, excitement!¡±


    Jack shook his head, he had no clue what the flamboyant man was saying and had little desire to find out. The ship suddenly lurked to the right, throwing Jack roughly against the starboard bow.


    ¡°Son of a bit-¡° was all Jack managed to say before a bunch of water splashed on his head and the rest of his body, making the last few minutes spent in the sun absolutely useless. Jack groaned and stumbled back on his feet. He blinked his eyes a few time. The waters had gotten a bit rougher, but more to the point, the ocean around the boat was now crimson.


    ¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t it? The color red that is.¡±, Odysseus said. "So much more true than the color gray."


    Jack tilted his head. ¡°Red¡¯s nice enough I suppose, but certainly not as a color for water. It looks creepy and out of place.¡±


    Odysseus turned his head to face Jack and stopped the mast in place with one of his gloved hands. ¡°Oh come now. Red is a primary color. It, like Blue and Yellow, can¡¯t be produced any way els-¡°


    Jack chuckled. ¡°Fraid you¡¯re incorrect there. The primary colors are Red, Green, and Blue. You¡¯re stuck in the days before modern color theory."


    Odysseus  bit his left pinky and pouted. ¡°I¡¯m talking in terms of painting, my dear lad. Red, Blue, and Yellow. Those three colors make every other color under the son. Without them, you can¡¯t have anything else.¡±


    Jack shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s semantics I suppose, but that¡¯s pigment theory, not primary color theory. I don¡¯t understand too much of it myself, though I do know that what art teachers say are ¡°primary¡± colors aren¡¯t objectively ¡°primary¡± colors.¡±


    Odysseus sighed. ¡°It is semantics. You focus too much on the details in a painting and you lose sight of the overall meaning. Of the theme."


    Jack shook his head. ¡°I can see where you¡¯re coming from, but you¡¯re off the mark. Only by knowing each individual part of something can we truly appreciate the whole of something.¡±


    Odysseus  chuckled and spun the mast wildly. ¡°Hahaha, we¡¯ll have to agree to disagree on that my vertically challenged friend.¡±


    The ship spun ninety degrees to the right, and while Jack stumbled a bit, he did not fall over this time. In addition to the red sea, which was becoming more violent, there were rows of statues lining either side of the boat, forcing the progress of the ship in a straight line towards the horizon. The statues were like the ones one would see at a Roman exhibit in a museum, lifelike and proportional to human beings. They were nevertheless spooky to look at, their gray stony exterior being dyed somewhat pink by the constantly splashing red waves.


    Jack tugged at his red tie nervously. ¡°Uh, hey, Odysseus , you sure it¡¯s safe to be steering the boat this way?¡±


    Odysseus smirked. ¡°Sure? Not in the slightest! But these waters, while odd and spooky, are usually harmless. They¡¯re unstable to be sure, but¡­ hm. Perhaps I should show you?¡±


    Before Jack had a chance to object, Odysseus  flourished, and from some pocket or cranny in his sailor uniform, produced what looked to Jack to be a shiny yellow diamond. ¡°Violent and unusual waters exist all around us. But they¡¯re not inherently dangerous. You need a ¨Cpush- (and here Odysseus  tossed the yellow object in the crimson water) to really make things risky!¡±


    Jack gulped down some air while he looked at the water, staring at it for about a minute. Nothing happened, the boat just continued. Jack let out a sigh of relief. Then the boat lurked backwards, tilting at about a forty five degree angle. The flamboyant man clapped his hands together and started giggling loudly yet again. Jack¡¯s gray eyes squinted. Heading right towards the body was a GIGANTIC crimson wave. Jack sprinted up the boat, and tied himself down with the rope he used to climb up on the ship. Just as he knotted the rope, the wave hit. The boat went flying, and even Odysseus ¡¯ hysterical laughter was drowned out by the roar of the waters pouring on everywhere. Jack was drenched instantly, and once more his vision was obscured.


    The powerful force of the wave pushed his body off the boat, but Jack clung on the rope he was tied into. The knot held as well as his grip did, suspending Jack¡¯s body in the air. For thirty long seconds Jack desperately held on to the rope, but eventually his right hand¡¯s grip faltered. His left gloved hand¡¯s hold and the knot at the end of the rope was all that prevented him from falling into the sea. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw another crimson wave heading towards his position, this one twice as big as the one he had been hit with before. The statues were no longer pink, but dark red, and the crimson liquid flowing off of the statues gave the impression that they were crying blood. The second wave hit the wreckage of the boat, and both Jack¡¯s left hand and the knot gave way. Jack was sent tumbling through the air, his trajectory heading right towards the third variation of the statue. He closed his eyes and braced for the impact. The impact never came. Jack didn¡¯t feel wet anymore, and he wasn¡¯t moving any more either. In fact, he was standing up straight. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was in a somewhat narrow hallway. He looked behind him and found the lobby he was in not too long ago.


    With a sigh, he continued moving down the hall. Maybe he¡¯d lay off the John Daniel¡¯s for a while.

 Amber – 2

    Videos are one of those things that will never go out of style. Think about it for a second, if you own a VCR you can watch a movie without even going to the theatre! You don¡¯t have to worry about commericals interrupting your movie every fifteen minutes either, all you gotta do is pop in the video tape, watch the film, and then rewind the film to watch it again in the future. By any angle, videos have a major edge over movie theatres and cable television in providing an enjoyable movie experience. Of course, the crowd that rents and buys videos on a regular basis are almost always fans of film. The average person will see a movie when it comes out, talk about it for a few days and then bury the memory in his or her head, only touching upon the experience when an opportunity for discourse on entertainment presents itself.


    This type of person gets entertainment from film, but is not heavily affected by a movie. He or she may have one or two favorite films that end up being purchased, sure, but for the most part films are not a major part of his or her life. Sam never remembered these type of consumers(unless the encounter was memorable for an unrelated reason, like say the person in question being a celebrity, or looking very distinct for good or bad reasons), he would only see them once or twice at most. But the regulars, Sam remembered the regulars well enough. There was Lobsterback, the elderly man obsessed with British comedy. He¡¯d walk in the shop at least once a week to rent the latest sketch comedy show from the royal isles, and probably as a result of his fascination with cheeky humor, was a joy to speak with.


    Twenty minutes talking to Lobsterback felt like five minutes talking to anyone else(except Sam¡¯s wife¡­most of the time), and it was a bright spot on the dreary workday whenever he walked in the store. There was also Bleeding Heart, the middle aged lady into dramas and soap operas. She was very self aware of the artistic merit(or more often than not, lack thereof) of the films and tv shows she liked to watch, yet she did feel the need to give Sam a synopsis on whatever she was watching at the time.


    Last week she had droned on and on about a series in which the main character¡¯s twin was his wife¡¯s murderer(and lover to boot!) the whole time, and the week before that she had wept bitterly while recalling a series about a dumb pianist who nevertheless managed to win the heart of a young lady using only his musical talents and his unshakeable determination. Finally, there was Specs, who was into sports films and war movies. A young brown haired bespectacled man in his twenties, Specs was always pumped no matter what the occasion. To say that Specs talked with Sam would be a lie, because Specs did not talk so much as he yelled in a cheery voice.


    He would always(after verifying that Sam had watched the film in question) hoot and holler about the best moments in the movie he was returning, screaming about the scene where the G.I. beat down the Japanese commander with a makeshift metal arm(he had lost his proper limb when he jumped on top of a grenade to save his comrades), or  the hail Mary Pass in the last moments of a football movie that won the underdogs the game. Sam found him less pleasant to ta-, scream to than he found Hugh, but enjoyed the discourse none the less. Sam had been promoted to ¡°Top Executive Manager¡± of the store, which meant that he did exactly what he always did but earned two more dollars an hour. After all, the only employees in the store were Sam and the Owner. The additional income was welcomed, because Sam had only two months before gotten approval from the bank for a housing loan. Sam liked his apartment, but an apartment for two is not an apartment for four. Two extra dollars an hour meant that Sam and his wife could take care of the costs that came with moving out of their apartment.


    Two extra dollars an hour meant that in twenty five years, the house they were buying furniture for would actually be theirs. Two extra dollars for two extra people. Sam smiled at the thought. Today was a slow day at work, even slower than it usually was. Boss had a funeral to attend to, and Sam¡¯s wife was out with her mother buying some furniture Sam was pretty sure that his kids would never need. When his wife¡¯s doctor told him that she was carrying twins, Sam had felt a feeling in his chest not too unlike heartburn. But time(and Pepto-Bismol) heals all wounds, and after a few weeks of frank discussion with his wife Sam had come around to the idea of being a father of two. His wife being pregnant was no accident, so if there was going to be a surprise guest in addition to the one he and his wife had invited then that would be just fine. He had no idea about the gender of the twins, frustratingly enough. When he asked his wife for permission to find out(she of course was in the know) all Sam received was a stuck out tongue and a playful rebuke.


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    ¡°After all¡­¡± his wife had said. ¡°it¡¯ll be more of a surprise when July rolls around.¡±


    There was a silver lining to being kept in ignorance, however. By not knowing the genders of the kids, Sam was by default banned from accompanying his wife and mother in law on most of their shopping trips(this did not apply to his wallet and credit card, oddly enough) But that was something for the future, right now Sam was focusing on his, er, ¡°work.¡± Well, as much as sitting at a counter waiting for customers who would not come could actually be considered work. It wasn¡¯t that the weather outside was yucky, outside it was seventy degrees and sunny. The main issue with today was that it was the middle of a Wednesday. Wednesday is in the middle of the week, and the middle of the week is usually not the most opportune time to return, take out, or purchase a video. The white collar folks were probably stuck in a meeting, the blue collar folks almost always had handiwork scheduled from nine to five, and those unemployed could still find better things to do on a Wednesday than pay Sam¡¯s video store a visit. Tourists wouldn¡¯t show up either, it was June after all.


    Besides, Charlotte didn¡¯t have much to offer tourists. Most tourists to North Carolina went over to Raleigh Durham, which was slowly but surely becoming a trendy place among teenagers. And so Wednesday was doomed to be an absolute bore, there was just no way around it. Suddenly, Sam got a spark of inspiration. There were several suspended televisions in the store, they broadcasted the newer videos in stock. This particular system was highly effective at increasing revenue, Sam recalled. He¡¯d seen multiple occasions in which a potential customer would walk around the store, not find any movie in particular, but then with the timely intervention of the rotating advertisement of the television decide to rent or even purchase one of the newer arrivals. The system wouldn¡¯t be of much use today, though. The time was three in the afternoon and the shop closed at four on Wednesdays.


    Surely, if Sam were to use the display televisions it wouldn¡¯t hurt revenue too much? And wasn¡¯t it possible that maybe, just maybe, a customer would walk in and, upon seeing the movie Sam was watching for his own personal amuse, decide to rent it in order to watch it as well? The damage would be minimal, and that was only in the worst-case scenario. Clenching his fist, Sam decided to go ahead and do it. He fetched a movie he¡¯d been meaning to watch from his personal employee locker. It was a sketch comedy from Britain. Lobsterback had highly recommended it, and with Sam¡¯s wife being so busy and pregnant, the video had sort of decayed in the background. The title of the series was ¡°Highly Successful Serious Salesmen.¡± He walked over to the store¡¯s central VCR, and ejected the video inside of it. With two delicate hands, Sam gingerly took the video and placed it back in its case. With that taken care of, Sam shoved the comedy show¡¯s video in the VCR. The screen on the television monitors crackled, displaying the FBI warning it always did. A loud tuba theme started blasting from the television; Sam scrambled to the stereo system and lowered the volume.


    One problem with videos, as cut edging as they are, is that the volume between them is inconsistent. Sam had set the television to seven blips out of ten, but seven out of ten sounded a lot more hellish and headache inducing with the comedy video than it did with the montage video. With the volume lowered, the sound was discernable, no longer just a shrieking cacophony to be ended. The sound was music, specifically a wacky tuba theme playing as several posh businessmen ran in and out of the camera¡¯s shot(of a street and cafe London, of course.) Sam giggled a bit, the over-exaggerated sped up sprinting and wild arm waving of the Serious Successful Salesmen were hard not to react to. Right as the show began to start in earnest, Sam¡¯s buzzer buzzed. He checked the message on it, it was from his wife¡¯s doctor.


    It read two words: Come Quickly.

 Amber - III

    Autopsying a corpse is nowhere near as fun or interesting as television makes it look like. Most people knew what was being broadcasted on the airwaves was an exaggeration, Mia figured, but it took working with dead bodies for the countless Police Procedurals on the tube to really get beneath one¡¯s skin. Death was depressing, and more to the point, very smelly. It wasn¡¯t just due to the fact that people voided their bowels upon death, although that post mortem function certainly wasn¡¯t helping things. The smell of a dead body is amongst the most revolting stenches the human nose can ever have the misfortune to experience. And the worst part was how the stench was present among everyone and anyone.


    You could be an OCD-inflicted model of cleanliness, carrying Kleenex with you everywhere, or a beet farmer with a strong aversion to bathing, it matters not. Once you kick the bucket, or as often was the case in Mia¡¯s profession, the bucket kicks you, the body you leave behind will be a crap scented middle finger to anyone without sinus issues. The body Mia was examining right now was no exception. A cleanup crew had come in before her, so the toilet, er, ¡°duty¡± was thankfully not hers. Still, the body smelled horrible. Mia sighed; it would take her days until her portable examination table smelt like a lemon again. A hastily converted kitchen at Bensen was not an ideal place to do an autopsy, but lacking any other proper place in about a hundred mile range limited Mia¡¯s options somewhat.  Also limiting her options were the obstinate demands of the Campus Police to keep day one examinations restricted to Porter Hall.


    Mia understood the concept of keeping some things underwrap at first, especially at a college campus, but to not allow her to use the chemistry lab was borderline ridiculous. It certainly was callous, that the victim¡¯s autopsy would be the basement of the very residence hall that she had died in.  The victim this time was a girl from Bensen University, about the age of eighteen, maybe nineteen. She¡¯d met her end through homicide. It wasn¡¯t too unusual for someone her age. Most victims of homicide tend to be twenty four or younger. Mia chalked that little factlet up to hormones and lack of full brain development. The story the police told Mia was tragic, even to someone who spent as much time with those with a pulse as she did without. The tale was brief but sordid. The victim, Danielle Letteri, was heading back to her dorm, to apparently check in on her roommate. Unfortunately, tragically, the very roommate she wanted to check in on stabbed her in a fit of dementia.


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    Mia shook her head in the pristine white room, there was really no villain in this incident, just a bunch of victims. But she didn¡¯t get paid by the Government to mull over philosophy, her pay checks came because of her ability to determine causes of death in those unfortunate enough to experience. She didn¡¯t even need to look closely at the wounds to know how this girl died. At a glance, the gashes on the legs and thighs of the athlete could clue in even an amateur what happened: the femoral artery on either, or perhaps both, her left and right leg had been pierced and broken. Human beings are more susceptible to death than most people assume. Even a cut on the finger, if left unchecked, can cause an Olympian to die in his or her sleep.


    Now, the femoral artery, if that is pierced then the game was pretty much over, even if you were skilled enough and iron willed enough to prepare a tourniquet. Well, perhaps that¡¯s a general statement. The femoral artery can be cut and the person can make it through easily enough, but only if the cut is a clean one. If the artery is cut in a jagged manner, then the victim has at best four minutes before he or she passes out and two minutes after that before death. Even if this girl was ¡°lucky¡± enough to have been surrounded by her friends when she got stabbed, she still would probably have been a goner. Mia sadly shook her head, this girl never stood a chance.  She jotted down the cause of death on her autopsy report:


    Victim was stabbed multiple times in both legs.


    Femoral arties both severed.


    Estimated time of death; 12 AM ¨C 130 AM.


    With that bit of business finished, Mia put a body cover over the deceased girl. She was about to go get a well-deserved (in her opinion) black eye, (a coffee with two shots of espresso) from the college brew shop when her cell phone vibrated.. A frown came up on her face: her Red Eye would have to wait.

 Blue - IV

    Travis knocked on the door once and was answered by silence. He knocked again, this time a bit harder and for a bit longer. This time there was five seconds of silence, followed by movement behind the door. An eye appeared in the door¡¯s peephole for half a second, and then with a click the door opened. An young black haired officer wearing the gold and black Bensen Campus Police uniform looked up at Travis and extended his right hand.


    ¡°You must be Agent Davis. Name¡¯s Officer Burress, but that¡¯s not too important.¡± The young officer walked out into the hallway and gestured towards the inside of the dorm with his left hand. Travis shook the man¡¯s hand lightly.


    ¡°How is the girl? Emily, I mean?¡±


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    ¡°She just woke up.", said the officer. "And I have to say, she¡¯s pretty out of it, I doubt you¡¯ll be able to get much out of her.¡±


    ¡°Listen, dealing with troubled people is what I do best." Travis said, confidently. "I¡¯ll give it a go.¡±


    The officer shrugged his shoulders.


    ¡°Ok, I¡¯ll give you fifteen minutes with her. To tell you the truth, I desperately need to use the, uh, facilities.¡±


    ¡°Alright Officer, you do your¡­ duty and I¡¯ll do mine.¡±


    Officer Burress laughed and headed off down the hall, presumably towards the lavatory. Travis walked into the room, which was much simpler than he expected it to be. All it contained was a bunk bed(the top bunk fitted with pink sheets and the bottom tie dye), a few posters of fad pop musicians from Canada, and finally a small Buddha statue made out of clay resting on the frame of the bottom bunk. A brown haired girl with ebony skin was sitting upright in the bed, staring at the wall of the dorm room.

 Green VI

    blue eyed man with a blue jacket and a blue tie had walked in minutes ago asked if she was emily of course emily was she the pleasantries were useless sleep was useless shemily was useless she watched her die she watched her die SHE WATCHED HER die and all she saw was the raven eye the raven eye the raven eye i i i don''t know what happened the blue man kept asking her but eye don''t know the blue man asked her to recall the last evening so shemily decided to tell him what she remembered and where-


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 Blue - V

    ¡°- did you go last night Emily, can you tell me that?¡± The girl with green eyes didn¡¯t say anything at first, but then she choked out a few words with a soft voice that almost seemed bored. ¡°It¡¯s useless for me to tell you. You wouldn¡¯t believe me if I did.¡± Travis sighed, moments before he had gently patted the girl on the shoulder to get her attention(though to say he had her attention now would be a bit optimistic), and it seemed that whatever dementia or madness she had the previous evening was still with her this morning.  He shook his head rapidly. ¡°No Emily, I¡¯ll listen to whatever you have to say, I-


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 Green - VII

    - promise she made a promise with dani emily made a promise a false promise from a false friend  but it wasnt her it was a monster who broke it blades for hands monstrous grin flayed skin horrifying and confusing yet emily was a false friend regardless of personal involvement the lack thereof was more damning than the lack of violence. blue man wasnt a monster but he was a child unable to see the monstrosities all around he couldnt fathom a phantom or absolve the abstract the room looked the same as it always did bunk bed and all but there was one bunk that would be debunked never rebunked and it was her who caused it shemily caused it no she didnt destroy dani but she didnt save her all the same she saw who did it she say the flayed skin the knives the blades she saw she saw she saw him saw her and it was all for not it  was all for not the knot wouldnt be untied she wasnt so hot the room was static but outside was dynamic the flow merciless the flow eternal it was of no use to -


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 Blue - VI

    ¡°Danielle?¡±


    Emily simply shook her head, her entire body was shaking and her eyes were darting back and forth nervously.


    Travis pinched the bridge of his nose. His interrogation was going nowhere, since Emily kept on losing, then regaining, her focus.


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    ¡°You don¡¯t remember the last time you saw her?¡±


    Emily shook her head again. ¡°


    You do remember?¡± She walked up towards Travis, and whispered in his ear.


    ¡°I saw her go off to run. When she stopped running she died. When I saw her she wasn¡¯t running. She was just lying down. Must have been killed for not running. If she ran she wouldn¡¯t be dead. You can¡¯t be dead and run.¡±


    Travis took a hasty step back from the green eyed shaky girl, his back was against the door now somehow. ¡°Alright, you say she was killed? If she was killed then who was the one who killed-

 Green - VIII

    danielle. her mistake was being too nice danis that is mistake because mistake is blameless and without fault she had no fault in the matter and thats why his knives werent so nice to her you cant have nice and knives the two dont mix they dont mix they wont blend they wont combine theyll just decline utterly and totally and it was useless to try so it should be used less or not at all


    danis level of niceness should have been not at all shemily told blueman more its not just that she didnt run its that she didnt run when she saw him she didnt even pay any attention the wise man he paid him tribute hes still here you talked to him right now the blue man was getting it a bit he asked if the gray man was the wise man of course the gray man was


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    the wise man he paid attention to shemilys warning when she warned him he turned around and though he knew not what he faced his soul confirmed that which his mind denied thus the flayed man forgave the gray man and all was well for him but only because he showed respect dani had no respect and shemily had no respect and with that out of the way she could weight the risks of talking this blue man of getting out of the bed and informing


    SHE WAS INFORMING EMILY WAS INFORMING SHEMILY WAS INFORMING HE DIDNT WANT AN INFORMANT SHE HAD TO GET HIM TO LEAVE BEFORE IT HAPPENED AGAIN HED SHOW UP AGAIN HED BE HERE HED COME AGAIN THE BLUE FOOL WOULD BE SLAYED HE WOULD GO IT WAS USELESS HE HAD TO-

 Blue - VII

    ¡°Leave!¡±


    Suddenly Emily swung at Travis with something dense and rough, hitting him savagely on his left cheek.


    Travis hit the white tiled floor hard. His vision became blurry, the item the green eyed girl was carrying looked round and brown. He gasped for a breath, and his short exhale turned a long nasty cough. Emily was yelling incoherently now, swing again and again at Travis in a rage. He reached for something on his waist, but a stomp on his left wrist and the ensuing crack that came with the blow made his effort a fruitless one. Travis tried to get up, but his legs were shaking as much as the violent girl before him was.


    She was out of her mind, clearly.


    But that didn¡¯t help matters, as she kept wailing on him. Her blows weren¡¯t as painful as they initially were.


    Grimly, Travis realized why. It wasn¡¯t that Emily¡¯s persistent bashes were getting weaker, it was that he was. A few hits on the head does one¡¯s sense of pain(among many other things) no good. His vision was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, things were looking extra awful.


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    He cursed inwardly at himself. He was supposed to help people, not drive them further into insanity. And dying here? Dying at a dippy little university for over talented kiddies? It was pathetic. He had not spent all of the all-nighters studying idiotically difficult and mind numbly elaborate concepts of mathematics to end up like this. The room was spinning. It wasn¡¯t of course, but it felt like it was.


    Travis heard something that wasn¡¯t his bruised body smack on the ground. It was the clay Buddha statue he saw before, but it was missing the jolly shaved head. His right hand reached for the statue, and miraculously was allowed to grab it. He managed to get a good hold on it.


    The blows continued, but Emily didn¡¯t notice his right arm, at least not yet. Emily¡¯s left hand hit Travis in the face, this time knocking off his glasses, which went flying to the opposite wall.  His right arm was raised, the statue in his hand perfectly positioned to thump the berserker girl in the head, hard. Travis brought his right arm down with all of his strength. Emily shrieked and spun to the right, narrowly avoiding the clay instrument of pain. The statue shattered¡­ on the-

 Green - IX

    -GROUND HE HAD TO GO UNDER GROUND HE COULDNT HIT HER HE WOULDNT HIT HER SHE WOULNDT BE HIT EMILY WOULDNT BE HIT NOT THEN NOT NOW NOT EVER IT COULDNT HAPPEN BLUE HAD TO GO HE WOULDNT GO BUT HE SHOULD GO A FEW MORE HITS WOULD DO IT IT WOULD BE DONE IT WOULD BE DONE THE DEMONS WOULD BE EXORCISED THIS WAS SHEMILYS REDEMPTION THIS WOULD BE IT HE WAS DOWN NOT UNDER GROUND DOWN DOWN THOUGH WAS A CERTAINLY BLUE WOULDNT MOVE BLUE COULDNT MOVE THIS WAS THE CHANCE THE CHANCE SHE JUST HAD TO GRAB SOMETHING TO FINISH THIS INVERSE TRIANGLE X A INVERSE TRIANGLE X A INVERSE TRIANGLE X A EMILY WOULD FINISH THIS SHE WASNT DUMB SHE WOULD NOT MISS HER CHANCE THIS WAS COMMON SENSE AND SHE WAS NO IDIOT OH NO SHE WAS THE OPPOSITE OF STUPID SHE WAS-


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 Blue - VIII

    -sharp. Travis¡¯s vision was absolutely abysmal now; the loss of his glasses a wound more crippling than anything the girl before him had inflicted on him.


    Still, the item, whatever the hell it was, in Emily¡¯s rapidly shaking hand was sharp.


    The first, ugh, indication of it was how it left a round wet red mark on Travis¡¯s stomach, the second was how it hurt like hell. Like hell, the wound(it couldn¡¯t be anything else) felt like fire, a pain not unlike sticking his finger in a bubbling oily frying pan for thirty seconds. The pain was getting too intense, more red marks appeared on Travis¡¯s stomach, arms, and legs. His eyes started to shut. He felt bad for himself, but even worse for the girl. Emily''s rants and raves all indicated one thing: She was traumatized.


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    He felt the barrier supporting his back give way, and then the only thing left was silence.

 Gray – 5

    The first thing Jack heard in the blue and white hallway was the music. Jack liked music, especially country and hip-hop(not together of course.) He wasn¡¯t such a big pop fan though. But the music coming from the room at the end of the basement hallway was about as popish as pop songs come.


    The singer was a male, presumably in his late teens or early twenties. His voice was nice enough, in a better time he would probably have been gainfully employed as a castrato. The lyrics of the song (the title of the horrid melody thankfully eluded Jack) contained such gems as


    ¡°I love you because I need you because I want you because I need you¡±, with each space between ¡°you¡± and ¡°because¡± filled in with a loud electronic crashing sound.


    There were only two people Jack knew who liked blasting such idiotic dribble at such an inappropriate time and place , and one of them was supposed to be relatively far away. With little miss verbose hopefully fast asleep in a lonely parking lot, there was only two possibilities left. The first was that a Bensen Police Officer just didn¡¯t care much for professionalism. Not necessarily a bad guess, cleaning up the vomit of self-entitled brats every night and giving tourists/over enthusiastic parents directions to mundane locations on campus every day would make Jack not give too much of a fuck about his job too.


    But there was a flaw in this line of thinking, and that was assuming that Bensen would hire people who took the job for money and the need to consume food instead of boy scouts who frothed at the mouth when presented with a chance to work at such an amazing place like Bensen. No, the odds of any member of the Bensen Campus Police being obnoxious and blasting this abysmal music were probably close to nil.


    The second possibility, well¡­. Hm. An internet article Jack had read the other day informed him that if one made a guess, and if one found out later that one was correct, one would be rewarded by a flood of endorphins to one¡¯s brain.(The article also indirectly informed Jack to avoid using the word ¡°one¡± more than one time in one sentence) Jack didn¡¯t necessarily believe the article, but he was always open to experimentation. His right hand fidgeted in his left pants pocket for a bit, creating pressure on the inner seams of his khakis. Two minutes later he withdrew his right hand, apparently satisfied with his efforts.


    He walked further down the white and blue hallway, towards the source of the music. He leaned against the locked door and waited. One Minute. Two Minutes. Three Minutes, Three Minutes and a half and¡­ well, he couldn¡¯t feel the endorphins rushing to his brain but they probably were doing some pre-sprint stretches. The door opened with a loud slam, the person who came out no stranger to the gray eyed man.


    ¡°Jackie, is that you?¡± the figure who came from the slammed door asked.


    Jack ignored the nickname, and smiled. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m just a mischievous leprechaun who likes to send random texts to short little twenty six year old women. Specifically short women who poke like to poke dead bodies with a stick.¡±


    Mia put her right sleeve over her hand and suppressed a chuckle. ¡°Well, I guess the cat¡¯s out of the bag. How¡¯dya know?¡±


    Jack winked with his right eye and threw his hands up in the air. ¡°Detective¡¯s intuition, I suppose.¡±


    Mia shook her head. ¡°Oh come now, haven¡¯t you ever read any detective novels? That¡¯s not a justification for your conclusion in the slightest.¡± A sly grin slowly spread on Mia¡¯s face.


    ¡°Wait, I get it. Your heart was longing for me, and the unbreakable connection¡­¡± (And here the labcoat wearing lady tapped Jack on the shoulder with her index finger) ¡°we share made you know I was here.¡±


    Jack¡¯s face went from its usual pale white to a tomato red in about five seconds flat. ¡°Uh, um, no, that aint it. F-f-f-fine, fine, I knew you were here cause of the, the, uh the emptiness.¡±


    Mia placed her pointed finger on Jack¡¯s shoulder as well. ¡°The emptiness¡­ of your heart?¡±


    Jack scratched his neck nervously. ¡°No, ah, c¡¯mon now stop teasing me. No, no, the emptiness on this here freshmen campus. Things only get like that during spring break, and considering there ain¡¯t any news of kids getting their stomach pumped on the tv just yet I figured that some poor sap must have bit the bucket.¡±


    Mia let out a throaty laugh. ¡°It¡¯s ¡°kicked the bucket¡±, Jackie.¡±


    ¡°H-hey I told ya it¡¯s Jack. Always will be.¡±, Jack protested.


    Mia just smiled.


    ¡°Oh shush you, I know that. But you¡¯re just so CUTE when you¡¯re flustered hon.¡±


    Jack straightened his tie and backed away, clumsily, from the short black haired woman. He loudly cleared his throat and straightened his tie for what was probably the fifth time in two hours. ¡°Anyways, if the Fop knew he didn¡¯t tell me. Mind giving me a quick 401 sesh? It¡¯s been a bit of an¡­ odyssey for me to get here, and I really don¡¯t wanna talk to these Bensen jerks.¡±


    Mia sucked on her left thumb for a few seconds, then nodded. ¡°Sure thing, I mean you ¨Cwere- gonna find out eventually. Also Jack, basic laws of spelling and grammar still apply when you text, you know¡­¡±


    ¡°You can critique my poor phone etiquette later, just tell me why you¡¯re here.¡± Mia raised an eyebrow. ¡°I live thirty minutes away, that¡¯s why I¡¯m here. Just like you and Travis are here because y¡¯all are the closest idiots in suits around HQ could find. But as for who I¡¯m doing work on, well, she¡¯s an athlete. Or rather, was an athlete. Can¡¯t really be much of an athlete now, y¡¯know, with the whole ¡°being a corpse¡± thing taking up most of her time.  I¡¯m trying to determine the circumstances behind her death right now.¡±


    Jack scratched his head. ¡°You don¡¯t know that yet?¡±


    Mia lightly slapped Jack¡¯s hat. ¡°Heck no! The girl died of bleeding from a severed femoral artery, the question is  not who killed her, or what killed her, the question is ¨Cwhy-.¡±


    ¡°Nothing against you Mia, but that isn¡¯t really your department. The Fop takes care of that stuff, along with me technically.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, your silver tongue and gentle disposition really just reaches out to people Jack, it must be a gift.¡±


    Jack scratched his left ear with his right hand for a few seconds. ¡°I did say ¡°technically Mia, lay off willya? But anyways, what¡¯s the big puzzle? Some nut stabbed a poor girl, she died, end of story right?¡±


    Mia shook her head. ¡°It ain¡¯t as simple as that. The girl who did it¡­ and she DID do it mind you, had no motive for the crime. She¡¯s also been babbling inanely for the past twelve hours.¡±


    Jack starred into space for a few seconds. ¡°A nut not making a whole bunch of sense isn¡¯t something too unheard of, little lady.¡±


    ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that?" Mia asked, grimacing. " But they usually have a justification for it. Hormonal or chemical imbalance, use, voluntary or not, of a psychosis-inducing drug, the government trying to get them¡­ y¡¯know, something like that ¡­ but this girl had nothing of the sort. I know, I¡¯ve done the tests. Only thing out of wack with this co-ed killer was the occasional night terror and panic attack.¡±


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    Mia leaned against the wall and let out a weighty breath. ¡°None of which explains the murder, unless we''re assuming some fight or flight psychosis."


    Jack shook his head. "Where''s the fop?", he asked.


    Mia snorted. ¡°You mean your partner, Travis Davis?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, the Fop. He¡¯s talking with Miss Stabby right now, I¡¯d figure.¡±


    The short lady rolled her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m all for gallows humor Jack, but that was bad even by my tastes.¡±


    ¡°Ah hell, you¡¯ve said much worse things yourself. You gonna lead me to where Twiggy McHipsterglasses is or not?¡±, Jack asked, impatient.


    ¡°I was just about to go see him myself, actually." Mia said. "Here, you hold on to this.¡±  The labcoat lady tossed something at Jack. Instinctively he tried to catch it, managing to secure the object after a bit of fumbling with left hand and well-needed assistance from his right.


    Mia clicked her tongue. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing you never tried to be on the cheerleader squad in high school, Jack. You¡¯d end up killing half the squad whenever someone tossed you the baton.¡±


    Jack grinned. ¡°What¡¯s a ¡°high school¡±?¡± His question was rewarded with another smack to his head, one that actually sort of hurt.


    ¡°Oh shut up. Your sarcasm makes you as much of a hipster as Travis is. Let¡¯s get a move on.¡±


    Mia headed back into the room she had come out of. The room, which the sign on the door claimed was a kitchen, looked like nothing of the sort. Mia or some other person with OCD had covered the walls and floor of the small room with plastic sheets and filled the space in the food storage room with copious amounts of medical equipment. Jack had seen the metal table in the middle of the room several times before, heck he¡¯d even been on it once himself.


    The metal table was simple looking enough, it looked like an examination table one might see at any old hospital, but it had one distinctive feature in the form of a pink heart with capital letters M, I, and A inscribed in the middle. The table was not unoccupied. There was a still figure underneath some sterile plastic sheets resting on top of the table¡­ Jack didn¡¯t really need to guess who it was. Mia jogged over to and opened the door at the opposite side of the kitchen turned laboratory.


    ¡°Hurry up Jackie, Travis will be done questioning her soon.¡± Jack shook his head and followed Mia out of the kitchen. The door led to a staircase, the staircase to the main lobby, the main lobby to a marble staircase, the marble staircase to a second floor. Jack followed Mia past a rather posh looking lobby at the main entrance of the second floor, down a hall to the left. The hall was filled with about twenty doors spread on either side of the lonely corridor. On each door they past was printed two words.


    From the pairings ¡°Jessica and Isabella¡± on the first door to the right and ¡°Kyrie and Akane¡± on the first door to the left Jack deduced that he was in an all-female hall. Jack wasn¡¯t totally into segregation of halls by the sexes, but he recognized the biological necessity behind that drove the concept. He never used public restrooms himself, yet could understand that those who did wouldn¡¯t be too enthusiastic about the prospects of sharing such an intimate room with a member of the opposite sex, even with the infamous ¡°lid up or lid down¡± debate aside.


    With that understanding, extending the concept to rooms and halls where students would sleep (allegedly) wasn¡¯t too ridiculous. Jack and Mia strolled down the hallway. They passed the bathroom, which had a bit of light trickling out from the crack of the door. Jack didn¡¯t pay the excess light much attention, the folks at Bensen wasting electricity wasn¡¯t exactly a difficult concept for him to grasp. They were the type of folk to pay five hundred thousand dollars for revolutionary new green toilets only to sabotage their own efforts by providing the students with as much toilet paper as possible. It was all a show.


    The appearance of being green was probably more important to those in charge of the building than the specifics of actually being green. Not that Jack cared about the environment; he drove a jeep and barbequed every other day. It was just the mechanical oppression of the place. The University to Jack was like a theme park, at first glance lively and phenomenal but empty and mechanical upon further reflection. After passing the bathroom, another set of doors came into view, once again covered with pairs of co-ed names. A thump came from one of the rooms at the end of the hallway. Jack noticed Mia¡¯s amber eyes open in alarm, and without saying a word to her sprinted down the corridor as fast as his five foot eight frame could take him.


    The wooden door had the names ¡°Danielle¡± and ¡°Emily¡± on it. It sounded like someone was hammering a piece of wood to the door or something. But wood doesn¡¯t tend to grunt out in pain after being hit for the third time, nor does it make a wheezing sound, unless the person doing the hammering has latent tree whisperer powers. Jack pulled on the door in vain, it was locked. The knocking noise that probably wasn¡¯t knocking continued, along with the groans and grunts. Jack pummeled the handle of the door with his right fist, doing very little besides causing a few nicks and scratches to form on his glove.


    With his punching method rendered ineffective, Jack tried kicking the door open with his nice shiny black shoes. Mia had caught up to Jack now, panting a bit but still managing to keep her cool.


    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s not gonna work. You stay here and I¡¯ll go fetch the security guard, he has a key.¡±


    With that, Mia ran off in the opposite direction. The kicks had made the door budge a bit, causing the entry way to tilt towards Jack ever so slightly. But the hammering noise continued, and the grunts did as well, but they were getting softer and softer. Jack covered his left hand with his right hand, pressing his left hand into a fist. He firmly shut his gray eyes. He observed the door; there was a small indent on the middle of the door that he had made with an earlier kick. Jack pulled his left fist back, as far as it could possibly go. He counted in his head. One. The muscles on his bicep swelled. Two. His left shoulder twitched. And on the third number his left hand rushed forth, making a loud impact with the door. The door didn¡¯t seem to take much damage, not even a scratch was visible on the spot where he had made contact with the painted wood.


    At first. The moment Jack moved his left hand back the door fell back. A somewhat loud crashing sound was made as a large person collapsed on the floor seconds after the door did. It was Tra- ¡­ the Fop, whose head had apparently made less than desirable contact with the floor the moment Jack knocked the white wooden door off of its hinges. In the room beyond the face down fop and the fallen door was a teenaged ebony skinned girl, holding a pair of scissors whose blades probably shouldn¡¯t have been red. Jack starred at her for a moment, before she screamed and rushed at him.


    Without really thinking about the future consequences, Jack quickly hit her in the stomach with his left fist. With a surprised yelp she collapsed face down on the tiled floor. She seemed motionless at first, sprawled out on the ground with her arms stretched out and legs pressed tightly together. Jack gingerly shook his left hand up and down in the air. The two punches had been more of strain on his arm than he had expected. Of a more pressing concern was the twig. Jack took a closer look at the tall body. The battered man seemed to be breathing, but his clothes were torn up and his arms and face were covered with welts and red marks respectively. His suit pants had rips in them, and were damp. Not with urine(at least Jack hope), but very much so with blood.


    The cuts on his pants were numerous but not too deep or bloody. Using more than a bit of effort, Jack flipped over the twig¡¯s body. The back of the Fop¡¯s body seemed fine, minus a bit of frizzled blonde hair where the back of his head had made contact with the door. The twig was probably pinned against the door during the entire unseen altercation, then. With his ¡°partner¡± seemingly ok, Jack turned his attention back to the co-ed he had just pummeled. She was no longer motionless, her back moving up and down slightly. Jack¡¯s ears twitched, he heard running heading towards the dorm room. Jack stepped over the door and the twig¡¯s body and walked out into the hallway. He saw Mia dashing down the hall towards him, hands full of medical supplies and mouth biting onto a key.


    Her face was about as flustered as Jack had ever seen it. ¡°Mmmgh ¨C mmhmn mnng¡±, she said frantically.


    Jack raised an eyebrow. Mia spit out the key and caught her breath. ¡°Is, uh, is everyone ok?


    ¡± ¡°See for yourself.¡±


    Mia looked first at the man reclining partially on the fallen door. ¡°Oh god, it¡¯s Travis! Ugh, he took one heck of a beating, we¡¯re going to have to move him for some first aid if he doesn¡¯t get up by himself soon.¡±


    She gently dabbed the fop¡¯s face and cuts with what seemed to be a wet lemon scented handkerchief. As she digged into her bag, probably to get more supplies for the unconscious idiot, she caught a glance of the face down freshman.


    Mia looked incredulously at Jack. ¡°How did you know that cylinder I gave you was a sedative?¡± Jack put his left hand behind his back and tried his best to avoid making contact with Mia¡¯s face.


    ¡°Uh, detective¡¯s intuition, I suppose.¡±

 Brown - III

    Nathan hated it. The taste was abysmal, like burnt plastic with a touch of copper.  The color was clear, but the taste was queer. Not queer in the way the single minded idiots huddled around him at the moment would assume and consistently accuse each other of being, but queer as in odd.


    Alien. Unwelcome. If Nathan could have his way he¡¯d destroy every last container of the beverage, take a baseball bat and smack every glass bottle and all the metal cans to tiny bits while the others watched. Yet he swallowed, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve, and asked for more, to the cheers of the animals around him. He didn¡¯t actually want more, (what imbecile would?), but he got more, and he drank more.


    The worst part? He smiled. Nathan smiled, a smile that the average dolt would mistake as genuine. He had had eleven servings of the disgusting concoction, and knew that in less than an hour the beverage would work its black magic on him.


    Even his thoughts, the one thing he usually could keep from the mindless morons around him, would abandon him to the crowd. The process would be worth the humiliation and headaches though. This pointless trial was the penultimate stage in a ritual, a ritual Nathan had been preparing arduously for the past year and a month. He had endured abandonment, molestation, and humiliation, so severe intoxication seemed like a breeze in comparison.


    Before the evening was done, he¡¯d move on from his pathetic acolyte status and ascend to being included in the glorified circlejerk limited previously only to the circle of jerks around him. Not having to perform such idiotic tasks wasn¡¯t Nathan¡¯s aim.


    He didn¡¯t even want to see the trials he performed imposed on another person either. It was the connections. The upperclassmen forcing the bitter beverage down his throat without laying a finger on him may have had the collective IQ of a garden house, but their parents yearly income was far to the right of the mean.


    These boys were the sons of men who through smarts or serendipity managed to actually influence the world in a significant enough manner. Powerful men, who had the ability to bestow money on those who possessed their favor. Nathan would never dream of going through this animalistic ritual for the blokes around him, no one sane would. He would, however, do nearly anything to construct a bridge for his future.


    Finally, the supply of vodka from his designated bottle ran out as the eldest Lambda Kai brother poured the clear liquid into a red plastic cup for him to chug. Without hesitation(but with a bit of a sloppy grip), Nathan chugged down the awful liquid, ignoring the stinging the bitter drink left in his throat and the bitterness that a year ago would make him vomit out of reflex. Finally, he slammed the empty cup on the table and crushed it, to the frantic applause of all present in the dimly lit basement.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    The elder ape who had sat next to him got up and clumsily stood on a chair to try his hand at public speaking.


    ¡°Awright. Toniwght we celebwate the (he paused and hiccupped)¡­ vawious acoomplushmens dat owere plewgde¡­ Naytin, hadz achieveded.¡±


    Nathan waved his right hand as much as his retarded(in every sense of the word) motor functions would allow him to.


    ¡°Naytin, youuu see, naytin iz a team playa n, n n itz only wigth, that we ceerebwate. So on the count of twee i want u to,uh, clink ur glasses togetder in honr of wamnda k-eye¡¯s newes bwotha.¡± The all-male crowd let out slurred noises of approval. ¡°weady? Won, twue, twee!¡±


    The manchildren around Nathan clinked their mugs and shot glasses together, or at least tried to. The presenter put his big hairy arm around Nathan and whispered(well, yelled but it¡¯s not like anyone what he said anyways) in Nathan¡¯s ear


    . ¡°Awright, tomorrow, after da off, off, off¡­¡±


    Nathan managed to force his mouth into obeying his brain for a few seconds. ¡°Official?¡±, he guessed.


    ¡°sumtiing like dat. after da official sheremony I want u to do bar duty. U deserve it bwo.


    ¡± Nathan blinked his both of his watery unfocused brown eyes. Bar duty was exactly what it sounded like; the one placed in charge of bar duty would pour drinks for the party attendees. The party at Lambda Kai the next day was scheduled to be a heat party. Essentially, it was a buzz term that translated to filling the basement of the off campus house with hot water. Nathan hated heat parties more than anything. They meant that even though he abstained from the disgusting mating rituals of his ¡°brothers¡± he very well may still catch an STI from one of the many whores and harlots at the greek parties who enjoyed having one night stands every other evening. His brain was fuzzy and his vision blurry, but it was critical that he not offend or ignore the request of his senior brother.


    ¡°Al¡­alright. Shure, ill do it.ill even bring my shcotch!¡± Nathan didn¡¯t actually drink scotch or anything at all when he was alone. It was imperative that people thought he did though. After all, what kind of freak didn¡¯t drink? Those around him had a limited mindset, they couldn¡¯t accept anyone different from them. In order to make use of them, Nathan needed to conform to their ideal, or at least appear to be devoted to meeting his brother¡¯s expectations. Compromising his wants for those of others felt disgusting, but once he had the means to be independent he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about meeting standards of appearances and social expectations ever again. The elder brother shook Nathan¡¯s hand once again and then flopped on a nearby coach. Nathan¡¯s phone buzzed. It was a message from some random girl he didn¡¯t care about.


    The message read:


    ¡°Lonly 2nite, missin u.


    ¡± For once in his life, Nathan was glad to receive a text from this girl. It gave him an acceptable out. Nathan cleared his throat


    ¡°Alrgit guis. I, uh, I gotta go. Got a text from Emuleh.(and here Nathan pumped his right fist in the air)imma get it in!¡±


    Nathan¡¯s proclamation was met with a cacophony of loud cheers and slurred jeers. He was going to do nothing of the sort, but his frat ¡°brothers¡± didn¡¯t need to know that. They loudly and sloppily slow-clapped for Nathan as he walked out the door, not even possessing the slightest clue that their efforts were wasted and even resented. It was of no major concern. After tomorrow he¡¯d be a full-fledged brother, and these inane events would lighten


    . The cool air greeted Nathan as he stumbled off into the night.