A/N: This fic has a similar premise to 'Saving Souls' by Scouts_Mockingbird on Archiveofourown, which is excellent and you should read it. (I started writing not long before coming across it.) I think the origin of the alternative universe worldbuilding I'm using here is a tumblr post by allofthefeelings on 22/10/2015.

—

September 21st, 1989

"Kill the bitch."

The woman shuffled forward, awkwardly balancing on what looked like a sprained ankle. Bloody vomit coated her chin. She was middle-aged, with a slim athletic build. Light brown hair flared around her head, crinkled with dried blood. J.D. knew, without needing to say it, that his father Big Bud Dean liked it when they fit that profile.

Kind of looks like Mom. Kind of doesn't make any difference at all.

The woman was possessed by a ghost. You could tell even without a seer's eyes. Normal humans didn't usually take big bloody bites out of the living, unless they were on some serious meth. It didn't matter what the woman was really like, whether she was as fucked-up as anyone else underneath. The ghost looking out of her eyes was what set that ankle down and ignored the pain. Most ghosts forgot how a human body operated, even when they grew strong enough to seize one.

Only a seer and a hunter, trained to work together, could take down a ghost. A seer could see ghosts, talk to them, and do nothing else but squeal and get drained. A hunter couldn't see ghosts, but hunters walked invulnerable in the world. A hunter's touch shrivelled and disappeared a ghost, and there was nothing the ghosts could do to them unless they got corporeal.

Not that this one had ever stood any chance.

J.D.'s axe was as familiar to him as his hands, and served as an extension of his power. The woman reached out a grasping hand in Big Bud Dean's direction, but she wasn't even close. The axe split open her head, before she could try and stop it. You always had to do the one-two technique in possession cases: first get the ghost out of the human, then destroy it before it fled. Mostly, the ghost went upward. J.D. whipped his axe out of the woman's bloody skull and aimed thirty centimetres above her falling head. The axe hit the wall behind her. He thought he felt the faint drag of clammy air that meant he'd hit something, but he couldn't be sure. If he'd missed the ghost, then he'd hear about it from his father. They made a perfect pair, father and son, seer and hunter, working to make the world a safer place in return for large payouts at Big Bud Dean Removalists.

J.D. heard nothing as he stood over the woman's dead body, except the sound of Big Bud Dean's heavy breathing. He felt nothing, looking at the red and white shards of the woman's skull. One down, more to go. The streets in this part of the town had been cleared of people. J.D. didn't see anyone else as he walked next to his father, except the body of an old wino lying in a nearby alleyway, already stiff and bloody. One of her victims. Big Bud Dean radioed their cleanup guys for two pickups.

—

Veronica Sawyer saw another shimmer out of the corner of her eye as she walked to school, but she didn't look. She'd carefully taught herself to never look.

Over the radio yesterday, there'd been a closed-off area downtown. The town had hired an external crew of removalist contractors; they'd either deal with it or had already finished. Sherwood, Ohio didn't normally have any ghost problems. It was a small town, with only one seer and hunter pair working at the hospice. The downtown news sounded bad, maybe spirits blown in on the wind from Cincinnati or somewhere.

Nothing to do with her.

Veronica got her books from her locker. Blue folder, English, politics, math. She looked at her face in the mirror she'd fixed on the back of the door. Her makeup was good; she straightened her collar a few millimetres to the left; the thin line of navy blue eyeshadow matched her shirt perfectly.

She was interrupted, blindsided by a flash of red stockings coming from the other side. "You're late, bitch." Heather Chandler slammed Veronica's locker door shut. She looked particularly confident today - red scrunchie in her blonde curls, matching nail polish and skirt. "Be at the cafeteria pronto at lunch for today's push poll topic. Don't forget the Remington party tonight. You can't accessorise for shit, so we'll come to your place and help. Later."

Heather Chandler was either Veronica's best friend or her worst enemy. God, she had no idea which one it was. Veronica flew with the Heathers, the most powerful clique in school. Heather Duke, bitter bulimic bookworm, Heather McNamara, insecure cheerleader failing math, and Heather Chandler, the almighty leader. She knew she didn't particularly like any of her friends. It's like we're coworkers, and our job is being popular.

It got Veronica away from her strange habit of seeing dead people, the habit she'd never told anyone about. Be popular, be cool, be beautiful. Be a perfectly normal girl, and no one will ever push you down a path you don't want to go.

Veronica spent most of the early years of her life in hospitals and hospices, all sterile white painted walls and the smell of ammonia and urine and sick people. First her mom's parents got ill, then her dad's, and her parents dropped everything to spend time with them and watch them die. At the time, Veronica hadn't wanted to go near the ugly, wrinkled things on the beds, as if they were fairytale monsters. She was afraid then bored, and sat on the floor with her picture books while her parents fussed over her grandparents. She'd started to try and play with the shimmering things she sometimes saw, but thankfully it didn't take her long to put the pieces together in her mind. Normal people didn't see those things, so Veronica Sawyer shouldn't either. And the people who could see ghosts wore black with a glowing silver eye painted on their chests, and that was just about the only thing they were allowed to do in life.

It wasn't quite an 'allowed to' question. Now Veronica was older, she knew that people with seer or hunter abilities weren't forced into the profession, they just ended up on a national public database and could be conscripted if a local situation was bad enough. But everyone would know what you were, and there'd be all sorts of pressure on all sides. Veronica could live without that. She was going to college next year, although she still wasn't exactly sure what she'd study. Mrs. degree, who knows. I already turn my grand IQ into selecting exactly the right shade of lip gloss.

Veronica made it into class just as the bell rang, barely on time. One of the nerds held the door open for her. She caught Heather Duke's eye across the room. There was a clandestine note already making its way across to her, a sheet of neatly cut notepaper folded in two, exactly in the middle.

Duke's writing was almost calligraphy, neat and pretty with hearts for the 'i's. Heard Courtney's mom got bitten by a ghost yesterday. Veronica hardly knew Country Club Courtney. She scribbled one word, Sad, and passed it back.

"I think Veronica's in a bad mood, Heather," Heather Duke complained. They were clustered in the corner of the cafeteria, talking in low voices.

"Shut up, Heather," Heather Chandler told her. "I need you to write a note, Veronica. Kurt Kelly's handwriting. Sweet, wistful, I've missed you darling, how about we get a slushie - one slushie, two straws. You'll need something to write on. Bend over, Heather."

"It's my new coat," Duke bleated. She let Veronica rest the folder on her back.

"The things I do for friendship," Veronica said. Forging notes was one of her talents: any handwriting, any level of vocab, any time, report cards and even doctor's notes for the right price. Kurt was left handed, with a big childish scrawl. Two misspellings, one grammar error, keep the sentiment just short of upchuck mode.

Heather Chandler didn't compliment Veronica on the work; that was normal. She folded it in half with a brief nod of satisfaction and passed it to Heather McNamara. "Get it on Martha Dumptruck's tray."

"Wait, no." Veronica bit her lip. She and Martha Dunnstock had a history. Former best friends; known each other since pre-kindergarten; now Martha was an obese loner and Veronica ran with new friends. "Martha's okay. She likes Jane Austen," Veronica said, looking at Heather Duke, who had her copy of Moby-Dick under her arm. Duke, Martha, Veronica - in grade school the three of them competed over who could read the most books, argued which of the three musketeers they wanted to be. Did such a thing as a sorority of readers still exist?

"I hate Jane Austen," Duke said. "Like I always say, I'd like to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone."

"You didn't say that, Mark Twain did," Veronica said. "Give me the note, Heather. Don't do this." Martha had a crush on Kurt - or used to - only God knew why. Kurt Kelly was a star football player and a future gas station attendant, with about a teaspoon's worth of gray matter and even less basic decency. But this would hurt Martha.

"Are you fucking arguing with me, bitch?" Chandler said. "I'm doing Dumptruck a favour, giving her shower-nozzle masturbation fantasies that'll last until she dies of diabetes. Heather, take the note."

McNamara scampered off like a yellow bunny on steroids. As Veronica watched her go, she saw a new face in the cafeteria. A boy in a black trenchcoat, with a piercing dark stare. It was strange to see someone different in Sherwood, Ohio. He looked Veronica in the eye with an electric intensity, measuring her, reaching out to her. She looked away first. Perhaps he's squinting because he's got terrible eyesight and everything is a giant blur to him, or there's a zit on your nose, Veronica, she told herself. The cafeteria was serving juicy steak sandwiches today, along with candy bars for extra sugar, the normal fare when there was an alert about ghost activity. Not so good for your hips, but useful if you walked through a chilly breeze that was more than just a breeze. She didn't particularly want to watch McNamara do the note trick to Martha, and there was nothing she could do about it now. The new kid had the vegetarian offering on his tray.

"God, Veronica, zone out much?" Duke said. "Quit sulking already."

"Shut up, Heather," Chandler said.

"His name's Jason Dean. He's in my American History class." Heather McNamara walked back up to them. "Jennifer Forbes says he came in with the removalists. He's totally looking at you, Veronica."

Mental note: avoid Jason Dean at all costs, Veronica thought. The slight flicker of interest she'd felt in the stranger was replaced by six feet of frozen ice. It might not be his fault if his mom or dad was a removalist, but she was one hundred percent not interested. "If you like him so much, you talk to him, Heather," she said.

"But it's my turn to poll the nerd table today, not the rejects," McNamara said.

Veronica forced herself to smile nonchalantly. We're friends, I'm cool, I'm not going to piss off Heather or Heather or Heather more than I've done already, she projected. "Good luck. I'll take the east side."

"Question of the day. Suppose you're dead and become a ghost, your sister inherits five million dollars, then you possess her body. What do you do with her life?"

"Star in girl on girl pornos. Punch it in, bro!" Veronica inwardly rolled her eyes. Kurt Kelly, quarterback, and his best friend Ram Sweeney, linebacker, exchanged fist bumps. How could you possibly have exactly the same neanderthal brain in two different bodies, and they weren't even genetically related to each other? It was times like this you wished you'd picked biology as an elective. Human vivisection would be a great way to find out the answer in this case, not to mention it would be a true public service.

"That's the stupidest question I ever heard," Veronica heard a drawling voice say. Heather Duke was the one polling the new kid. He had a flat, cutting accent that punctured through the background noise of the cafeteria, like a scalpel would shear down to the bone. "No sister for me, but hey, the old man's had the odd fling. Row out to the middle of some lake with a bottle of tequila, drink the tequila, and try to drown peacefully. If you're dead once, make it twice."

"How cute." Duke gave her best insecure giggle and moved on. Veronica took the cue to do the same.

The Heathers did these push polls, and people listened to them, and sometimes Duke wrote down the most interesting or disturbing answers for the yearbook. Maybe it was narcissism, hoping to see themselves or at least the trends they set reflected back at them. Maybe it was a show of power, compelling people to pay attention to them. Or maybe it was a relief from boredom. Veronica got the job done, smiled, and successfully distracted herself from practically everything.

—

Kurt Kelly took the last bite of his steak sandwich. It was a real man's meal. Like he always told his mom, no pussy vegetable shit for him unless it was fried at least three times over. He'd done the important stuff, now it was time to fix a problem with his best friend and linebacker, Ram Sweeney. He pulled Ram into a huddle over the table and jerked his thumb at the new kid.

"Heather number 3 said he was cute," Kurt explained. They couldn't have that. His personal idea of a good time would be being the meat in a Heather Chandler and Veronica Sawyer sandwich, but until that happened you needed to keep your options open. Duke was at least an eight out of ten. Besides, his best friend Ram had dated Duke a couple of times.

"He looked at Veronica Sawyer," Ram agreed.

"Shit, we're seniors, we can't beat him up," Kurt said, thinking carefully about it. He grinned as he worked out a solution. "Let's just give him a good scare."

They marched together, shoulder by shoulder, an impressive sight that made many an opposing team member turn tail and run away squealing like a little piglet.

The new kid wore a black trenchcoat, like some fucking Bo Diddley wannabe, and he was eating lettuce leaves. Kurt slammed a fist down in the middle of his plate, just to grab his attention by the balls.

"Hey, fag, are you gonna eat that?" Kurt said.

"Did you cry when you left your boyfriend and moved to Sherwood, Ohio?" Ram asked. No response yet from the new kid.

"Did you know this cafeteria has a no fags allowed policy?" Kurt said.

Ram cracked his knuckles meaningfully. "Answer him, dickhead."

"Seems to have an open door policy for assholes," Trenchcoat Boy said, levelly, with this annoying little faggy smirk on his face. He was definitely asking for an ass-kicking.

"What did you call us, fag?" Kurt said.

"I'll repeat myself," the new kid said. He stood up behind the table in one smooth movement and pulled something from under the trenchcoat. Something small, black, and shiny.

The new kid had a gun. Oh jesus christ fuck holy shit fuck, the new kid had a gun and he was pointing it at them.

Two bangs, approximately four screams, and then complete silence fell.

—