A/N: While Steve isn't necessarily my favorite character, I'm finding it easy to write things from his point of view. I made guesstimates on everyone's age/age-range, except for Annie because hers is the only age known. Steve is the only one I actually looked up the actor's birthdate on and, while I would have guessed him at mid-20s for the miniseries, he was actually 29 during filming, so I'm just writing him as late-20s. I think I've also taken dedication to the next level. I actually watched the orientation scene with the express purpose of plotting out their seating chart. Yikes!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters or ideas created by Stephen King. I borrowed them for the entertainment and amusement of my audience.

SUMMARY: He studied them from the back, wondering what kind of people they were in daily life.

GENRE: Horror

RATING: PG

DATE: September 5, 2013

::~*~::

Steve sat in the darkened corner of the room, to the left of the door. With the exception of the lecture hall he was in, the Wimser building was completely deserted. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, the dull sound doing nothing to calm his nerves. After so many weeks of preparation, he was finally going to meet the group that Joyce had assembled. She had kept the participants a closely guarded secret, the only exception being Annie Wheaton. Joyce had spoken so often of her and, frankly, Steve was getting tired of hearing about her.

He didn't know why he was so nervous. He didn't really care about any of these people; he didn't even care for what they were doing. He was only involved because of Joyce, because she had a tendency to get so completely immersed in her work that she often forgot to eat and sleep. He could only imagine what kind of a state she'd be in after spending three days in the house if he weren't there to look out for her. Blaming his fit of nerves on his impending return to the house he hadn't set foot in since he was eight, he decided there was really nothing he could do at this point.

He watched as Joyce came rushing through the door, his hand gripping the armrest unconsciously as the door slammed against the outer wall. Joyce had been going in and out so often over the last fifteen minutes, he was wondering how much longer it would be before the hinges just snapped off. She couldn't seem to make up her mind whether she wanted to greet the group from a place of power and leadership upon the stage, or whether she wanted to be more personable and greet them at the door. Steve grinned to himself as he wondered what she would do if they started coming in when she was halfway up or down the aisle. Personally, he didn't care. He'd chosen his current seat to be out of the way, letting Joyce have her limelight as the first person they saw, but also so he could study them as they came in. When she actually started her presentation, though, she was expecting him front and center.

The door opened and two women entered. One looked to be in her early-fifties, while the other looked a bit younger than himself. Joyce's attention had been caught by the door opening and closing and she had hurried up the aisle from where she had been going over her notes. Steve was convinced she was as nervous as he was, given the group was coming together for the very first time. She had no need of notes as she knew his family history better than he did—backwards and forwards.

Steve was close enough to hear the introductions, but not immediately noticeable by the participants. The older woman was Cathy Kramer and the younger woman was Pam Asbury. Steve was slightly disappointed that the introductions didn't include what their special talents were. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was burning with curiosity. Both of them looked slightly self-conscious about being there but, if Steve had to guess, he'd assume that they had just met in the hall, realized their joint destination, and had introduced themselves to each other there before coming in. With a wave of her hand, Joyce invited them to sit anywhere in the lecture hall and, true to the outspoken theory that women moved in packs, they sat next to each other in the second row. From his vantage point, Steve could see them making an attempt at small conversation, but it seemed they were mostly silent, each lost in their own thoughts.

He studied them from the back, wondering what kind of people they were in daily life. If "judging books by their covers" accurately worked, he would guess that Pam worked as an assistant in a law office or some big corporation. Being the typical man that he was, he had to admit that she was quite pretty, and she probably left a string of love-struck men in her wake. Of course, he figured it was dependent on her supernatural talent and whether it was something she tried to hide or was very open about, and if her timid façade was any indication, he'd opt for the former.

Cathy was a little more difficult, because he would almost assume that his initial impression of her was wrong. "Classic cat lady" was the first thing that came to his mind, but he suspected there was more depth to her than that. He could almost see her as the proprietor of a book and trinket shop that catered to the supernatural and paranormal, lots of ebony and royal purple velvet curtains covering the walls, lit candles casting mystic shadows over the leather-bound book selection. She talked more than Pam had, but Steve was given the impression that it was a nervous trait.

Nerves. Was it possible they could be the death of some people? He'd dated a girl in high school who had loved Jane Austen's Regency world and he had suffered through the five-hour BBC version and the mother who had complained, quite shrilly, about her nerves every five minutes. Maybe it hadn't been every five minutes, but it sure seemed like it when her voice had grated on him, making him cringe every time she came on screen. Cocking his head to the side, he wondered if Cathy was a fan of Jane Austen. She certainly looked like one who was acquainted with classic literature.

The door opened again and an older gentleman entered the room, looking as if he wasn't sure if he was in the right room. His hair was white as snow and he wore thick glasses and a nervous smile. Joyce had finally made up her mind and positioned herself at the door to the auditorium, so she quickly introduced herself to him, shaking his hand vigorously. His name was Vic Kandinsky. Joyce invited him to take a seat anywhere and he walked down the right-hand aisle, waving an awkward greeting to the women who were already seated. The uncomfortable tension of the room seemed to increase with each new body that entered. Vic took a seat in the fourth row, declining to sit any closer.

Joyce turned from her position at the door to look at Steve, a brilliant smile on her lips. With a waggle of her eyebrows and a tilt of her head, she motioned for him to go introduce himself. Steve shook his head in the negative, preferring to stay put for the time being. Joyce's smile faded, but she opted not to force him. Turning back to the door, she almost got run over by the next young man that came through. A loud, abrasive female voice followed him through the door, and Steve found himself cringing instinctively, wincing in mental agony.

The obvious recipient of the woman's words was turning bright red as he hurried to close the door behind him, cutting her off mid-sentence. Steve swore he saw the man breathe a huge sigh of relief as the door clicked shut behind him, despite the fact that, from Steve's position near the door, he could still hear the woman hollering on the other side. A wave of sympathy went out to the man. Joyce greeted him by name, Emery Waterman, and after quickly shaking hands, the young man made a beeline down the aisle to sit on the same row as Vic, practically trampling the other man in his attempt to find refuge in the hard, plastic seat.

Steve felt eyes on him and, looking across the auditorium, he spied Pam staring at him. Having followed Emery's entrance into the hall, Pam had finally seen him sitting in the back, keeping company with the shadows. She smiled at him before turning back to the front. In spite of his low spirits, he found himself smiling back, but she had already turned back towards the front. She leaned over to whisper to Cathy and Cathy turned in her seat to look at him. Cat's out of the bag, he thought sullenly. Cathy seemed to be appraising him from across the room before she turned back to the front and proceeded to say something to Pam. Steve felt a flush creep over his features, wishing he could hear their whispered conversation.

Pulling himself away from something that was none of his business, despite the fact that he knew they were speaking about him, he looked over at Joyce. She had opened the door and was glancing up and down the hallway. Steve glanced down at his watch. 7:05. Time for the orientation of Rose Red. Joyce stepped back into the room and looked at her own watch. Frowning, she took a deep breath and started down the aisle. Steve took this as his queue to follow her to the front where she could toss him under a spotlight for a minute as the current owner of Rose Red and last of the Rimbauer line.

He had just gotten to his feet when the door flew open and another man came bursting through. Not at full speed, but it was evident he had been running. Joyce had been halfway to the front of the lecture hall when he came in. Steve saw her face fall just a tiny bit before she swept it away and plastered another smile on her face. Assuming correctly that he was Nick Hardaway, she introduced herself. He apologized for his delay, blaming it on his quick perusal of a map which happened to send him to the wrong side of the campus. Not wishing to hold up the group any longer, he slipped by Joyce and sat himself down in the third row, immediately relaxing into the seat as he threw an arm over the seat next to him.

Showtime, Steve thought.

"I'd like to welcome you all out this evening. I'm really glad you were able to make it." Joyce paused a moment and Steve knew she was thinking about the Wheaton sisters. "I'm sure your time is very valuable, so let's jump right in. I'd like to introduce you to Steven Rimbauer," she gestured for him to come to the front, "who has graciously opened his ancestral home this Memorial Day weekend."

::~*~::

A/N: Here are the age ranges as I determined them. There's really no rhyme or reason to including them here, but they may prove important to future stories that I write. Vic (mid-60s), Cathy (early-50s), Nick (mid-30s), Joyce (early-30s), Emery (early-30s), Steve (late-20s), Pam (mid-20s), Rachel (early-20s), Annie (15)