I walked down hallway after hallway, scanning the locker numbers, occasionally looking at the paper in my hand, the one with my locker number and combination on it.

59… 60… 61… There. Locker 62. I spun the dial on the lock, lining all the correct numbers up. I opened the lock and swung the metal door out.

I don't know what asshole thought highschools were a good idea but clearly they need to be shot. In fact, I'd be surprised if they hadn't already been shot. In the half-hour I'd been here, I'd pissed off at least half the student body and determined that I knew absolutely no one at this stupid school.

I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Karkat Vantas and I just started at Sburb High. I'm short, and when I say 'short' I mean short. I'm about 1.4 meters tall. I also have black hair and anger management issues, but really, who cares about that stuff?

I started unpacking my bag, sorting my books into what classes they're for. Of course, being the short fuck I was, I reach the top shelf, but there was more than enough room on the other shelves for me to fit my stuff in.

I'd just finished sorting my things and was about to close my locker when I heard footsteps behind me. Like directly behind me, not just walking past.

"Hey, short ass. Get out of my fucking way."

I turned to see the biggest asshole ever standing there, waiting for me to move.

The scratched-disk motif on his shirt filled my vision, and I raised my eyes to see that he was wearing sunglasses. Inside. What a douche. I finished my scan of him by noting that his blond hair had so much product in it that it'd probably go up like a dead tree if someone held a match to it.

"I'm not short," I snapped, looking up into his shaded eyes, "and if you want me to move you'll have to be a whole lot nicer about it, douchebag." I turned back to my locker, pretending that I still had stuff to do.

"Hey dude, no need to get nasty about it, just get the fuck out of my way." He said, grabbing my shoulder and turning me to face him.

I glared at him, wishing I was taller and opened my mouth to retort but some guy with buckteeth and glasses interrupted.

"Hey, Strider!" he called, waving. "Striiiiideeeeerrrrrrrrrrr!" He called again when he didn't get an immediate response.

The asshole, I guess his name was Strider, turned to the bucktoothed kid and waved.

"This isn't over, jerkwad." He said before walking over and bro-fisting the other guy.

I sighed and closed my locker, slipping away into the crowd.

'What an asshole,' I thought to myself as I followed the flow of the crowd to the gym, where we were supposed to meet after we got our lockers.

As I took a seat I saw that kid again – Strider – with bucktooth in tow. His shades scanned the hall, appearing to stop on me momentarily and I shivered.
Something told me I was going to see a lot more of this Strider guy.