Please note: The topic, characters, and references to other works contained herein are not my intellectual property. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes and is in no way for financial gain or production. That being said, please don't steal my things. It makes me a sad panda. Please read, review, and relish!

MV3G-2

Chapter One

"You got a little...other side. Yeah."

Abed leaned in close to Britta and tapped his nostril while she invaded her own, trying to get the booger out that he had spotted. She took her finger away and leaned in closer to him. He eyeballed her and rubbed at his nostril again.

"Dammit," she muttered, shoving both fingers up her nose. She twisted and turned, withdrew, and leaned even closer to Abed. He tapped his nose.

Troy watched this unfold, all the while everyone else around the table was silent, checking their phones, save for Shirley. She was holding her baby while taking down notes on the YouTube video they had watched in Anthro...

"Wait, what're you doing here?" Troy said, pointing at baby Ben.

"It's a free country now, jackass, you can't ask questions like that," Pierce quipped while fiddling with his Blackberry.

"Have to get my studying in for Anthropology," Shirley said sweetly, rocking Ben with one hand and scribbling furiously with the other. She had given birth less than twenty-four hours ago.

"What studying for Anthropology? We're not even going to have a test."

Shirley stopped her writing and her rocking and eyed Troy suspiciously. "You for real?" she said, all leery-eyed.

All eyes around the study table gazed upon him quizzically, sympathetically, angrily, and perhaps seductively, if he was reading Jeff's eyebrows right. Abed was still leaning towards Britta, who still had a finger stuffed up so far up her nose she could have been giving herself a brain massage.

"We don't have a test in Antrho. Do we?"

"Troy, what part of the word finals doesn't grasp your attention?" Jeff said, his eyes never leaving his phone.

Troy gawked. "Duncan's giving us a final. Actually, this time."

"Today at two," Abed said, matter of factually. "Had to decide it last minute when the superintendent came in to check on the dean's job. Duncan handed in a copy of a test and declared it a few days ago. Multiple choice questions on all the videos we've watched."

"Are you serious?" Troy blurted.

"He put in pop culture references for me as bonus points. I asked for a lot of Happy Days. He almost didn't do it until I proved to him how it fit into the curriculum."

"Oh, no, no, no, NO!"

"There's also some Kick Puncher. He put in all my question suggestions."

"And you thought I was a loafer," Jeff said with fake cheer to Britta. She scoffed, finger still holstered in her nostril, and said something to the effect of Jeff slowly becoming a verbal geezer.

"I'm not ready for a test! How could there be a test? We didn't do anything!" Troy wailed.

"It's okay, don't worry," Annie said soothingly. "It turns out 101 isn't a prerequisite for 102, so even if you fail, we can still take the next class together!"

Troy slammed his hands on the table and shot up out of his seat. As he paced behind Pierce, the study group seemed to be caught up in a murmur, like a hive full of bees, and Troy couldn't make out a word of what anyone was saying until he looked over.

Abed and Britta were making out. Annie was singing with an accent while Pierce was laughing hysterically as he chewed on his Bluetooth set. Shirley yelled into the face of her baby, which had frightfully morphed into Chang's head.

"What in the hell—"

"Wanna play with me, Troy?" Jeff asked as he leaned over the table with a pool cue and hooked his bare leg over the edge.

Annie sang louder. "GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT—"

Take me through the shadows to the break of the day

"Balls," Troy muttered, alarmed and awake. His clock radio was blaring ABBA in his ear. 7:48. he had slept through the first alarm, blissfully unaware he was running late.

Troy stepped into his slippers and headed up from the basement to the main floor. Pierce's mansion was nothing short of huge, with two kitchens and at least six and a half bathrooms. From the basement lay the "rumpus" room (Pierce said it all the time and Troy was yet to figure out what it meant), which held enough entertainment units to put shame to the cost of Troy's degree. They clashed horribly with all the Persian rugs, mounted buck heads, and Laser Lotus paraphernalia, though Pierce couldn't quite see what the problem was. "They all have spirit warding enchantments on them, anyway," he had said, "I can't just give them away."

Upon stepping into the TV room Troy spotted the housekeeper. "Hey, Rosa, you seen Pierce around?"

"Señor Hawthorne is in the pool house," Rosa replied curtly, fluffing a throw pillow with distaste and scowling at Troy. She was an older lady, and her passive expression was scowlish enough to begin with, what with all her jowls and all. So to see her twist and snarl like that made Troy think that she was actually upset about something.

"Thanks," he said, slinking away, past the mini maze and the Sacred Sauna on to the pool house.

On his way through the ground-level bar, the sound of hammer on nails reached his ears. In the pool room he found Pierce nailing two by fours to the sun room windows.

"Where's Pedro?" Troy asked, for Pedro was the handyman who would take care of things like...nailing boards to windows for no apparent reason.

"Fired him," Pierce said wistfully, standing up and shaking out his legs. "Hand me that board next to you."

"You fired Pedro?" Troy exclaimed.

"Yeah. Is that other one still here?"

"Other what?"

"The Mexican, you dolt."

"Rosa? She's cleaning the TV room. And I'm pretty sure she's from Catalonia."

"Go in there and tell her I was serious when I fired her too."

Troy gawked. "Why are you firing everyone?"

"Haven't you heard? The Mexicans are overrunning the State," Pierce said emphatically. "It's every man for himself out here."

Troy crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay. Remember that behaviour plan we put you on? That includes sayin' stuff like that. You can't study with us today."

Pierce finished nailing the board across the windows and gave a dry laugh. "Study? I'd get mugged before I even made it off our block. I'm not leaving this mansion."

"Wh—but we have finals!"

"So what? I've got a pretty hefty life insurance policy that I don't want cashed in yet. I'm pretty sure it goes to a stupid German escort and I want to change that before I kick the bucket. Now hand over that board, for God's sake."

"You been switching meds with Starburns again?"

"No! That stuff's laced. I go with the hack sack club now. Anyway—haven't you seen the news report this morning?"

"Er—no."

"It's on just about every channel. They said to board up the windows and stay indoors. Those wetbacks are rampaging something fierce."

Troy opened his mouth to tell Pierce off again but decided it was a lost cause. Deciding there was something worth investigating here, he turned and left Pierce to his devices ("I asked you twice! You're with them, aren't you?"). Rosa was grumbling while organizing the magazines on the coffee table. Troy caught the word "wasp" when he reached for one of the remote controls and turned on the fifty-inch TV mounted on the wall.

A sky view of the hospital was on screen. A reporter was droning on about something, headliners were scrolling across the bottom, and numbers and letters and for all he knew secret missile codes flashed across the sides. Then Troy started to notice that something looked off about the hospital: it was blocked off from the streets, surrounded by cop cars and people. The reporter's words sank in as the camera crew slowly circled around the perimeter.

"...unknown origin. It is advised that if you encounter with any individuals with these signs or symptoms that you avoid physical contact and alert emergency services immediately. If you are bitten by an infected individual, isolate yourself from others as soon as possible and contact authorities. It is strongly advised that you stay within your homes; do not leave unless absolutely necessary..."

"Rosa, you know what's going on?" Troy asked, eyes glued to the television.

"Sí, señor Hawthorne vale menos que un cerdo en una boda."

"Right. Thanks." The reporter was on screen now, repeating the instructions. When the shot returned to the hospital, Troy gave an involuntary squawk of horror. "Shirley!"

"Oh, Cristo en el cielo," Rosa muttered darkly.

The first thing Annie heard in the morning was a chorus of screams, followed by a gun shot, and then her alarm. She sighed, crawled out of bed, and made sure all her bolts were set in place before slinking into the shower. She was groggier than a zombie until she remembered Shirley had had her baby boy the day before.

It had been mostly exciting—somewhat frightening. And it had gone fast, too—according to Abed she had been dilating most of the day by that point, but for the baby to just...pop out like that after an hour was something! Not to mention they dodged the exam bullet because of the event. Not that there had been an exam to dodge to begin with.

It had become a little awkward when baby Ben was finally born, though. Annie's reminiscent smiles turned into frowns and sighs of regret. Even though Andre committed himself to Shirley's baby, it must have been no less difficult to accept it as someone else's. Especially Chang's. There was tension in the room (Chang singing "We Are the Champions" certainly didn't help to dispel it) until the ambulance had come to pick up Shirley, her baby, and the two fathers.

Originally the rest of the study group was going to study for their respective exams together, but after successfully delivering her first baby, Britta needed to "hit the sauce pretty hard." So they went to Pierce's and got a little...carried away.

As she turned off the shower, she could hear someone from outside shouting over speakers. She rolled her eyes and scoffed. Lars, the owner of Dildopolis under her apartment, was probably trying to throw another Night Owl Deal, though it was odd he was doing it during the day. Once she finished getting ready in the bathroom and stepped back into her room, however, she heard him shouting obscenities through the outdoor PA system, mostly running along the lines of calling the "pigs."

Annie stepped up to the window and looked down onto the street. Lars had run outside and was hollering away at a group of a dozen or so people, who were shuffling around him while he swung a coat rack wildly about. Annie narrowed her eyes, dropping the drape and moving to her dresser. She dressed quickly, got her school things together, then went to the closet. She paused before she swept the doors open; there, right in the middle of the floor, was her prized steel bat.

Oh, she was young, and she was emotionally vulnerable, maybe—but weak she was not. She reared her head a few times in the past couple years, most notably during the paintball game. When the going got tough, she kicked it into high gear: She knew Tae Kwon Do. She knew how to shoot. She was Annie Oakley, goddammit. And in the last year, she learned that she could swing a baseball bat so hard it would put an all-star to shame. Weightless steel that sang when it struck home. It felt light in her hands—maybe an ounce light on the end. Otherwise, it was a beautiful weapon, made for dealing all kinds of hurt. Which Annie was not afraid to deliver.

All bolts and chains were unlocked with deft movements. She swept through the door and checked her corners. Locking the door again, she crept down the stairs, poised to strike. By the time she was at street level, Lars was trying to hold off a tall, beaky-looking guy with his coat rack.

"Hey! Big Bird!" Annie hollered, brandishing her bat. "Back off!"

The scraggly guy didn't say anything, but diverted his attention from Lars to her. Lars spun around. "Annie!" was all he screamed, over and over.

"I'll use this thing," she warned, lifting it up higher.

The guy grunted and shuffled for her. Even before he came close enough to be a threat, Annie let loose her battle cry, ran forward, and swung the bat into his knee cap. The guy tumbled to the ground, weakly working his limbs to try to get up like a newborn giraffe. He wasn't even screaming in pain.

"Annie, Annie, Annie!"

"You should be good, right?" Annie said calmly, looking at the drowsy state of all the other hoodlums. She could recognize a drug addled brain when she saw one—been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Not a problem for Lars to handle, at least.

The whites of his eyes stood out on his unusually pale face. He looked more harried each time he rasped "Annie."

"Gotta go, Lars, I've got a Poli Sci final. You should be able to hold them off until the cops get here. Looks like they're only on narcotics. It's like babysitting."

Lars huffed and blubbered a bit more, but Annie turned from him abruptly and headed down the back alley to her parking stall. There was a lone stoner leaning against the garbage bin across from her car, and as soon as she got close, he held out an arm and grunted.

"No change, sorry," she said distractedly, throwing her bat into the back and climbing into the driver's seat. What a start to the day. Poor Lars—he'd probably have to throw at least three Night Owl Deals in the next week just to make up for today's botch.

Jeff woke up, did some pull ups and push ups, showered, shaved, gelled his hair, then dressed in a pullover and a pair of Buffalo jeans. By the time he got his stuff together, got in the car, and drove within a block of the interstate, he remembered that he didn't need to be on campus that day—no exam for him.

"Dammit," he growled, smacking his wheel. He turned the car around and decided he'd do some shopping out of the IKEA catalogue.