Disclaimer: I don't own DP.

BGM: "Historia Calamitatum" by Rise Against.

Knock Down Dominoes

"Aw, crap! Great," I mutter, kneeling to find my flyaway hairclip. "My first date in months, and my hair picks today to go all clown wig on me. That just figures."

Suddenly, I felt someone or something poking my shoulder and whip my head around. "What?"

Red hair, granny shirt and bell-bottoms. It's my roommate Jazz, smiley and helpful as ever. "Would you like some help finding what you've misplaced?"

Not for the first time, I think Jazz is just too perceptive. Nice, a little too peppy, but a lot smarter than she lets on. And I don't mean book smarts, though anyone could figure that out from how she talks like a walking dictionary. I mean street smarts, the kind you get from dealing with folks you know could break you in a second if you gave them a chance. I shake my head. Whatever, this is not the time for worrying about my weird roommate.

I snap, "You wanna help, get looking and find my hairclip. I've got twenty minutes before Bryant picks me up, and I am not gonna be late on the first date. That's just ten kinds of relationship no-no."

She giggles. G-d, that laugh is so annoying. Then she squats down, sticking that little sparkly pen she's always got back behind her ear. Frowning, she lifts up the sheets. "Hmm…"

Oh, not under the bed, it's filthy down there. "That wasn't a good 'hmm', was it?"

"That depends. Was that hairclip about four inches long, in a tortoiseshell pattern?" She holds it up with two fingers, revealing my second-favorite hairclip covered in dust and I-don't-even-know-what crud.

"…Yeah, forget it. That's just nasty."

"Agreed." Jazz gets up and goes to the edge of Mary Ann's space, hovering her hand over the wastebasket. "Throw it out?" she asks.

"Throw it out." I confirm.

She drops the ex-hairclip like a moldy pizza crust and hastily wipes her hand on her pants. She turns to me and gives me, or rather my hair, a weird look. Hesitating, she asks, "Could you wear another one?"

I raise my eyebrow. "You've got perfect hair of perfect waviness. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent hairclip with hair as coarse and frizzy as mine? It's not easy!"

She pouts. "Well, you don't need to be mean about it. It isn't my fault you inherited your father's bad hair genes."

"That's just- Okay, you know what, forget this. I'll just go looking like a throwback from the seventies and get laughed out of the room. There's no way that could go wrong," I mutter sarcastically. I climb up and stomp off, thinking mean things toward Little Miss Peppy over there. Just because it would be rude to say it, doesn't mean I'm not going to think it.

Jazz yells at me to wait, but screw her. Actually, don't screw her. I hope she dies a bitter old virgin at eighty, with like a million cats. Prissy little wonder girl, thinks she knows everything.

I rifle through the linen closet. I think I left a few scarves in here when they wouldn't fit in my dresser. "Tasha…"

"What?" I snap, not bothering to look at her.

I hear a sigh, and then, "I'm sorry I offended you. I shouldn't have made that bad hair comment. I know you're sensitive about it."

"I am not that sensitive about my damn hair, Jazz, I'm pissed that you don't get it."

"Get what?" she asks innocently. I can just see the look on her face, all big eyes and little smile and calm and cutesy. Sneaky bitch.

I shut the door of the linen closet, breathe out slowly, and turn to face her. "Relationships, Jazz. They're about going out, having fun and loosening up. They're a chance to wear something that's not a granny sweater for a change."

Her eyes widen. "You're still angry with me for backing out of the planned double-date?" she asks incredulously.

"No. I'm mad you dumped Nathan for no reason. What the heck were you thinking?" I vent. She's had this coming for a long time.

She scrunches her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I wasn't thinking from the start, Tasha. I know he's your friend, and he's a really nice guy, really, but…" She looks right at me, that sharp look that makes me feel like I'm wrong, even when I know it's her fault. This time, I'm not buying it. You messed with my friends, and it is on.

"It was all my fault, and I am sorry, Tasha."

Say what now? "You're seriously pulling that 'sorry, woe is me' crap on me? Tell me you're not that stupid."

"I wasn't stupid, just very desperate. And desperation can make the smartest people do very stupid things."

I snort. "No kidding."

She smiles apologetically.

"No. Stop that," I cut in.

"Stop what?" she asks, surprised.

"That I'm-so-sweet girl-next-door act of yours. You know what I'm talking about," I accuse. "The one you use anytime anyone asks you about your family or your hometown. I don't know what kind of skeletons you've got buried, and right now, I'm on a deadline so I don't care. You wanna be all secretive and sneaky, fine, but not with him. Nate's like my little brother, and thanks to you, he's miserable. So either you spill, you give me a damn good reason, right now, for why you had to do that, or get lost and let me find my damn scarf!"

Jazz looks at me like she's just found some strange new creature staring her in the face, then straightens and looks me right in the eye. I'm pinned like a butterfly, damned if I know why. "I see," she says quietly, then smiles a little, bitter cold like dry ice. "I misjudged you, Tasha. I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry I dumped Nate. He might have been happy, and most likely was from what I could see, but I just couldn't keep lying to myself."

"Lying to yourself?" What the hell?

She looks away, studying my awesome sparkly dark pink crop top, skinny jean capris and strappy shoes. At least, I really hope that's what she's looking at. Jazz is a great study partner and a decent roommate, but I do not swing that way. Oh, crap, if that's it I need to let her down easy, I do not need a jilted psych-girl mad at me. This is already going pear-shaped. "Don't judge a book by it's cover – advice that is often said, but rarely listened to. At first glance, you're egocentric and superficial, just the sort of girl I couldn't stand back in high school. But you're not really. That was your mask, wasn't it?" What is she talking about?

She looks back up at me. "Tasha, when I started high school, I really was the bubbly smart girl. That girl-next-door act you mentioned was, in fact, me, or at least a major part of my personality in those days. Then early in sophomore year, things started to change. How much do you know about Amity Park?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Please just answer the question, Tasha."

I try to stare back, but I have to look away. Someday, I will figure out how she does that. "Okay, fine," I grumble. "Small town, home of all things weird, creepy, undead and, oh yeah, fake."

Jazz giggles again.

"What?"

"That's the problem, Tasha. It isn't fake, not any of it," she says, calm as ever. Who does she think she's kidding?

"Seriously? Pull the other one, girl, it's got bells on."

"I'm not trying to fool anyone. I am, as you would say, 'as serious as a punch in the gut.'" She switches tacks suddenly, pulling back her left sleeve to reveal-

"What the hell! That's a fucking knife. Are you crazy?"

"Yes, it's a knife, but it couldn't cut butter right now."

"Could have fooled me." I'm backing up now, away from the crazy conspiracy nut that thinks ghosts are real and has a knife in a freaking arm sheath. What's next, tinfoil hats and pipe bombs?

She sighs heavily, smoothly slipping the knife out of its sheath and stabbing her hand with it.

"Wait, NO!" Oh, Lord, my crazy roommate's just stabbed herself and …wait a second. "You're not bleeding." I point at her left hand, completely unmarked, with the point of the knife pressing an indent into the skin without cutting.

She rolls her eyes, amused for some reason I've just realized I may never understand. "I told you, it's harmless right now."

Okay, so maybe she's just weird-crazy and not psycho-crazy. Good, that's good. "So, right now, harmless? And when it's not?" I ask. Maybe I should have just kept my trap shut.

She nods. "Do you have any items you wouldn't mind parting with?"

I shouldn't even be considering this, but… "Tell you what, you cut up that ugly-ass vase thing in the living room so I can get rid of it without offending Mrs. Jacobson, and I'll believe whatever you say." At least it'll be a nice change watching Jazz make an idiot of herself for once.

We walk into the living room to the ugly-ass vase. It's gray and brown, a cheap knockoff of some famous antique, and it looks an awful lot like a giant dog turd. Who knows, maybe it'll be gone for good this time.

"Now, watch carefully, Tasha." Jazz flicks something near the end of the handle, and suddenly the dull metal starts to glow. No shit, it's glowing, bright green like something out a sci-fi movie. It must be some kind of prop knife, maybe from a Halloween costume. She has a brother, right?

I hear a high buzzing noise, just barely audible and annoying as heck, like that noise the old TV makes sometimes. Then she moves, quick and clean and smooth, one long slash through the air, ending in a fighting stance that doesn't look like those showy, flashy action sequences in low-budget movies. It looks more like the tag end of a mixed martial arts match Nate talked me into buying on pay-per-view, only not really. Then I notice that the vase looks a little shaky around the top, and then about a third of it tips off and thumps onto the floor. "Eep!"

I stare at her. She's got one hand over her mouth, the other still holding the knife. She groans, flicking the knife off. "You see what I mean, Tasha? I'm not normal, and I was just good enough at pretending to fool both of us."

Us? Wait, her and Nate… Shit! I forgot about Bryant. "Damn it! You're nuts, and you made me miss my date."

She checks her watch, calm again. "No, you haven't. You still have seven minutes, and he's picking you up outside. You're already dressed, you just need to do something about your hair." Just like that, she's switched gears to bossy study-buddy mode. "Wait here," she says, tucking the knife back into her sleeve and heads for the hall closet. She rummages around for a few seconds, then comes out with a cream-colored headscarf with pink flowers on it. It looks a little too cutesy and not-shiny-enough to be mine.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Hanging on one of Emily's privacy screens." She walks around behind me, looping it up over my hair and pulling down. I can feel her tying a knot and fussing with my hair. I'm still too stunned to move.

And, now I'm not.

"What?" I yelp, unbelieving. "What the hell just happened?"

"We were arguing, went too far, and now there's a minor mess over there by the wall. Frankly, it's something of an improvement. That really was a rather ugly little thing, wasn't it? And far too misshapen to be useful. Maybe as a pot…" she trailed off absently.

"Mess – wha – okay, I give up. You are insane."

"My life is insane," she retorts, smile firmly back on her face. "Although I admit, I'm not exactly the picture of mental health myself." Chuckling quietly, she presses my brown clutch purse into my hands. "Oh, you don't need to worry about the mess, I'll have it cleared up in a jiffy. And don't forget your keys."

Wide-eyed, I walk over to our front door, glancing back in her direction every few steps.

I know how silly it sounds, me eyeing Jazz like some dangerous predator about to snap its jaws shut on me, but sue me! She's scary. I knew she was strange, but I figured that's just because she's some kind of genius prodigy, one of the rising stars of our psych department, here on a full-ride scholarship, only she couldn't get a dorm room because of some paperwork mix-up. Now I find out she carries a knife, a glowing sci-fi laser knife for crying out loud, that cut through thick plastic with barely any effort at all. She definitely knows what she's doing if she could pull that stunt without cutting herself open, and I know she knows some hand-to-hand tricks on top of it because I caught her correcting Nate on them once (and flirting, not that I care about that right now).

Distantly, I hear her shouting good luck from the window. I waved back, or maybe I only think I waved.

Bryant is standing there with a box of drugstore candy and a wilted red rose. He's got a movie ticket in his pocket to match mine, two for the latest vapid rom-com that we both know is only good for a few cheap laughs and an excuse to make out in the back. Bryant is a decent guy, maybe not the sharpest card in the deck, but sweet in a shy-guy skater-dude kind of way. I thank him for the candy, even though they sell the same thing at concessions, and take his offered arm. Best of all, he's normal and stable and a hundred percent real, and that's what I need right now, because I feel like my mind's gone off into the stratosphere.

I just wanted to get some dirt on Jazz, mostly so we'd be even for her ditching my friend and a little for insurance. I figured I'd have to wheedle it out of her, but she just up and told me – only she didn't really say much at all. "It's isn't fake." That's it. It sounds crazy. Hell, it is crazy.

Even crazier? I still think Jazz is genuinely kind and sweet. She's good, but not that good an actress. Hey, I figured out part of whatever she's hiding, didn't I? But that's all most people see. People trust her, confide in her after knowing her for all of two hours, and go to her for advice about every little thing because she's usually right. Just now, she told me that desperate people do dumb things. For most people, that might mean someone gets slapped or yelled at, or goes and trips over their own feet. For her? I don't even wanna know.

I was mad at her for dumping Nate, but now I can't help but be grateful. Whatever her reasons, she's right about one thing. He's better off without someone like her, because folks that dangerous? No matter where they go to run or hide, trouble goes looking for them, and I don't want her kind of trouble anywhere near a nice kid like him.

"Babe? We're here."

"What?" I start. Sure enough, we're standing in front of the movie theater. I look back. Did we seriously just walk a little over a mile, and me zoned out the whole way? Shit. What a day. "Yeah, Bryant, that's great. Tell you what, you go buy whatever snacks you want, and I'll go get us seats. That sound okay?"

He blinks, unsure. "Yeah, but, uh… Don't you want to eat anything?" Bryant asks in his quiet, hopeful way, like a big friendly puppy-dog with those warm brown eyes and his hair flopping around. Normally, I would be melting at the cuteness. Now I'm too upset to see straight. Damn it, Jazz, you ruined my date. Swearing revenge, I pull myself together with an effort of will. I'm here, so I'm darn well going to enjoy this. I'll deal with my freaky roommate later.

I smile, but it feels fake and too-familiar and pulls at my face weirdly. Even Bryant looks worried, and he's nearly as dense as a brick. "No, it's okay. I don't really have much of an appetite right now." I don't bother trying to laugh. I just detach myself from his arm, push through the crowd and fish my ticket out of my purse. Suddenly, I'm a little glad I already have mine. I get my ticket stub back from the guy in his lame uniform and rush over to the theater and slide into a seat near the back. The room isn't that full, maybe a third of capacity, and I'm grateful for that, at least. Now I have a chance to finish freaking out quietly and wipe the tears off before Bryant gets back.

I stick my purse into the seat next to me, curl up into the ratty cushions and shake like a leaf. Yet again, I've managed to poke my nose in where it doesn't belong, and this time, I'm not so sure I can get out of it.

I should just finish up the movie, go home and pretend she doesn't exist. I can't move now, I'll never find a decent place, but maybe I can swap spaces with Mary Ann. She can share the bedroom with the scary girl, and I'll sleep behind the partition in the living room. Anything is better than this, this not knowing what the hell is going on, only that I might be living with a monster.

Suddenly, a loud chime rings practically in my ear, and I shoot up out of my seat, ready to run. My text alarm just went off. I dig through my purse and flip my phone open.

Jazz: R u ok? You looked upset. I'm very sorry if I scared you.

I flip the phone closed and hit the off button, hard. It's way too late for that.

Now I just need to figure out what to do about it.

A/N: Yep, yet another new story. Sorry to anyone who was following my longer works, but FL is dead, and CHI is going to need cleaning up at the very least. Too many OCs. And before you point out the OCs here, most of them are incidental. Only two will be major characters, one or more supporting characters, and various random unnamed background people will be filling in the crowds. Some of the other canon characters may make appearances, but Jazz is the main protagonist here. I'm not sure how long this will be, but I'll at least explain Nate, fill in a few details and wrap up the current story arc. Hopefully, I won't flub this. Ta!