"For the last time, this is not Halloween! Take that repulsive—no—offensive substance off of your face and look like a respectable human being!"

You sigh for the fifth time today as yet another teacher pitches a fit over you're the 'offensive substance' covering the vast majority of your face. Okay, yes, it's pretty much clown makeup, and yes, it does freak the underclassmen out, but you're not about to go down without a fight.

"Listen, Mr.… Whoever-you-are—Mr. Senior teacher face: there's a little thing in this world I like to call freedom of expression." You play it cool, as you're used to stuff like this. "You like to wear suits and ties and bug-eyed glasses; girls I know conceal anything that could become a zit in the next month, turn their lips every color of the rainbow, and wear so much mascara their eyes pop; I wear face paint. We're all making a statement here, even though I may not be dressed to impress." You gesture to the skeleton face presently sitting atop your head in hoodie form, drawing attention to the bones decorating the rest of the garment. Your knee pokes out from a rip in your jeans (one you personally created, you might add) as you lean against the wall. It may look like you're cornered, but you know differently.

"Young man…" Mr. Senior teacher face warns. His face is turning a rather disturbing shade of red, and his breath fogs his glasses: all zillion centimeters of each lens. Well, he's mad. "I know more about you than you think, and I wouldn't be this… concerned if you knew what to do with your life. I've been told by every teacher you've had what to prepare for, and I consider this an early start to your time in my class." You blink, taken aback. Out of all of the situations you've encountered, this is not the most common. Heck, this hasn't happened once since you donned the paint. You decide to go with plan B: forget civilized conversation and tick him off.

"So you think the circus isn't a respectable career, huh?" You smirk, rub a small dot of paint off each side of your face… and draw two streaks of pasty white on his. "Well, I hope that changes your mind." And for good measure, while he's still spluttering, you pinch his nose and say, "Honk, honk."

For a moment, everything is silent.

Then the teacher almost literally explodes.

"DETENTION!" The middling man shouts. He scribbles something frantically on a little, important-looking, and very familiar piece of paper; tears it out of a little, important-looking, and very familiar pad. Then he sticks it on your forehead. You watch it un-stick itself and flutter lazily onto one of your shoes.

"Okay," is your nonchalant reply. You pick up the detention note and survey it. Sell by date: one week from now.

"I want you to march to the nearest sink and wash that grime off your face, and I will not go away until I see you do so!" More threats from the raging 'educator' open up a loophole you can't help but slip through. Like a boss.

"You mean you're gonna follow me into the boys' room?" You ask, the disturbed look on your face only half-faked. "What if I have to take a leak?" Mr. Senior teacher face sighs. This part of the battle is yours for the winning. You walk in and do exactly what you said you had to do because really, you weren't lying about that last bit. After, you decide to finally do what he had said. If you took too long, he'd get suspicious and then walk in, and Gog knows you wouldn't want him to invade your privacy. Your face is now dripping wet and free of paint, and now, when you look into the mirror, you can see the scars. After two whole years, the three long gash marks imprinted diagonally upon your face are still there. Wow. They would be cool if they weren't so ugly.

The teacher seems lost for words as you walk out. He starts, finally, to speak. "How did you…"

"Cat fight," You say, and he nods. "So," you immediately change the subject, "When does detention start? Tomorrow? Cool beans. Am I free to go? Thanks a million, teach. See ya!" You are out the school doors before, you suspect, he can process all you had said. Upon your triumphant escape from the deadly war prison that is school, you find your best bros waiting, acting as cool as they can be, by that weird streetlamp. You know the one with the face graffiti on it? Yeah, that's the one.

"Oh! Hi! How come you were kept late?" Bro number one wheels over to you, his expression way too sincere for a guy in eleventh grade. You pay no heed and ruffle his hair. He laughs.

"The usual," You answer coolly.

"Detention?"

"Yep." His face falls. Now he just looks like a puppy that had just been kicked. Crap. "Sorry, Tavbro. When teachers make fun of your face, what're you gonna do?" Tavros gives another, weak laugh, one you return.

"Really Gamth? Again? The thcool year ithn't even half over yet!" Bro number to marches in your general direction, probably having one of his bipolar fish-fits, for lack of a more profane word. "What are we going to do about the band?"

"Hey, hey, it's cool, Sol! How about you guys get into detention with me and we can pass notes. Plus, we still got today. I came up with some killer lyrics for our next song, if anyone's interested."

"There'th no way I'm thtepping foot in that curthed plathe."

"I really don't want to get in trouble, so…"

A sixth sigh escapes you, a fond one this time. "Alright, alright, jeez!" You grin the grin of defeat, which isn't as creepy without the face paint on. "Now Tav, we should really get you home. Your mom's gonna have an aneurysm or something."

Tavros tilts his head up from his wheelchair with a look in his eye that makes both you and Sollux, aka bro number two, jump. "Turbo speed?" He asks with what you know is fake innocence. You pinch the bridge of your nose and nod, while Sollux makes several undistinguishable hand gestures that you think mean no.

"Turbo speed."

You grab onto the handles of Tavros's chair and break into a run, propelling him through your neighborhood's own little pedestrian rush hour with Sollux sprinting behind, dodging Millicent Bystanders along the way. The two who aren't falling behind let out a whoop and do a wheelie that almost sends them crashing into an elderly couple, while behind you, you hear something along the lines of,

"Ga…Gamth! Wait for me! I'm… I'm dying here, come onnnn!"

Your name is Gamzee Makara; life is good.