Marked
She was different.
The first time he saw her, she was standing in front of the entire student body at X Middle School.
It was the Introduction Ceremony for new students at X and he, Vallejo, and Parnassus had been sitting on the side of the stage in case one of the students decided to throw pies instead of Styrofoam balls…again. He remembered sighing throughout Folsom's speech, barely listening to the Principal's near histrionic intro. He never liked the razzing, but it was another one of X's quirky, yet valued (for whatever reason) traditions so he bore it without complaint. Truth be told, he suspected it actually worked to some degree. Craig McGee, last month's newest addition, was an awkward boy with a splotchy face and the type that wore socks with his flip-flops. Everyone avoided him until the ceremony where he demonstrated his ability to dodge the foam balls with surprising agility. McGee was now an admired athlete and a legend in X's Dodgeball Team.
Go figure, Fillmore thought wryly.
As the time came for Third to make her appearance, he straightened in his seat—no butter cream pastry was going to get by on his watch.
When she finally stumbled out, his eyes immediately locked onto her. Ever since he joined the force, he's grown used to taking in the details of a scene or people. And if his gut feelings meant anything, then Ingrid Third would not be accepted as easily as McGee.
For one thing, she certainly did stand out. Even without the bright spotlight, she had a certain air about her that forces attention. He had watched her observe the crowd critically with her head held high and her emerald eyes narrowed, as if she was judging if they were worth her time or not. Folsom had mentioned she was smart and the intelligence shined in her eyes. Her painted lips were blood-red against her pale skin and charcoal hair. And if her 'unique' looks didn't attract stares, her fashion sense sure did: a simple black slip-on and a pair of dark sneakers with green lining caused her to clash horribly with the majority of the school's much brighter dress colors.
A couple weeks later, he discovered that she was even stranger than she first let on. In addition to her hobby of practical voodoo, Ingrid Third also turned out to be both a rebel and a studious bookworm. He's caught her in the library on his daily patrol more times than he can remember. But then again, he's also caught her riding her new scooter on school campus the same number of times, if not more. She didn't have many friends in her classes—being a genius with a stand-offish personality isolated her. But the few who were lucky enough to call themselves her friends had nothing but good things to say about the brave, caring, misunderstood girl.
Himself included.
After working with her on so many cases, he knew her better than anyone else. And never in his entire eleven years has he ever known someone so full of contradictions. Even Vallejo had said so when they worked the Red Robins case: She was different. She looked dark, but she fancied girly trinkets like Happy Cat-Head accessories. She was practical to a point but had decorative Gato-Wombato anime linens and various knicknacks adorning her desk. She has a sense of justice that rivaled his own and a set of skills that was illegal in several states. Her eyes were icy but her smile warmed his heart.
He would have never thought someone like her would be the one he called his best friend.
But now he can't think of anyone else he'd give that title to.
As he leaned against the lockers, he searched the crowded hallways with practice. The school was filled with a multitude of students ranging from the techno-experts to the javelin champions. Athletes, artists, geeks, and members from all sorts of cliques littered the hallway. But he wasn't worried. Out of the corner of his vision, he spotted a bland-looking figure wearing a grey hoodie, baggy sweats, and a backwards baseball cap. Fillmore smirked. Taking his walkie off his belt, he spoke into it, "Between Room 302's drinking fountain and the east side lockers."
The figure he had spotted started walking towards his direction and stopped right before him. Reaching out, Fillmore flipped back the hood with a flick of his wrist to reveal a sharp pair of annoyed green eyes. His smirk morphed into a good natured grin.
"Time?" he questioned casually.
Ingrid pulled off the cap, causing her bound hair to fall freely against her cheeks. She checked her watch and scowled. "Thirty-two seconds flat."
His grin widened and her frown deepened in response.
"How are you so good at this?" She asked while unzipping the hoodie to reveal her usual dress and the neon-orange sash that marked her as one of the Safety Patrol and his faithful partner. She handed him the watch for his turn to disguise himself while she played lookout in their weekly version of 'Hide and Seek'.
He only smiled.
"Because you're different from the others."
Word from the Writer: Whuddup, FFers. I didn't mention this earlier but here's what you've all been really waiting for:
Disclaimer: I swear on my leather cowboy boots that I do not own any bit of Fillmore! in this entire agglomeration of one-shots. Nope, that's all Gimple. Love that man. Respect.
SCP is a random collection. Some are short enough to make you think: WTF that's it? Refund the last two minutes of my life please, some are long enough to be split into two chapters but I don't do it because I like to irk you guys, some fit in with the show, some are a branch off of it, and some hint at a new Fillmore! story that has been scootering around in my thinking space.
Show that review button some love.
Peace.
Dev out.