Because I'm cool, I... don't have copyrights to TDI. And I'm kind of borrowing the idea of the Sookie Stackhouse series. ( not that you're going to see Eric or Bill here, sadly. I mean, even if you know what it is. Uh. I'm just, eh, using the part where vampires 'come out of the coffin' and the Japanese have developed synthetic blood for the `vamps. )
Oh, and this is Trent/Gwen, with minor Duncan/Courtney, Lindsay/Tyler, and Bridgette/Geoff.
But, sorry to those people out there, I refuse to be one of those fics where Gwen is all "I LOVE YOU CHANGE ME INTO A VAMPIRE" and Trent's all "KAY" and then they live happily ever after what is this silliness. D: The beginning doesn't have much except for a few introductions.
Red sky in the morning,
sailors take warning
The sun was clawing it's way up, up, up, across the canvas of night, the blazing halo just peeking over the horizon and turning the skyline into the golden-pink of dawn. It was the chilly-warm of new dawn, dew collecting on grass and brick. The beginning of a new day revealed itself with an extravagant flourish, throwing the cloak of night back to reveal the morning in all of it's glory. The sky was tripping and tottering along the line between a dark, dusky pink and crimson, but it finally plunged into red when the sun pushed itself off the horizon, independent and defiant.
On this glorious morning to a new day, a city was moving to life. Lights went on, and blankets went off, and then, like clockwork, the people in this city proceeded to do whatever they do every day. Whomever said that we are creatures of habit struck closer to home than he or she thought. However.
There is one particular person that this story will center around, and that would be a tall, lanky girl whom goes by the name of 'Gwen'. During the glorious morning, she was fumbling blindly out of the suddenly tangled blanket (dark blue, striped with a murky green – she'd fallen in love with it as soon as she'd set her eyes on that thing) and quickly slipping on clothes, checking the digital clock that sat innocuously on top of her dresser.
She'd had it for years.
It's alarm had been late for varying spans of time (it usually was an hour late) for years.
She loved it anyway, out of fond memory and the fact that she'd covered it with stickers pilfered from clothes tags with a well-placed fingernail and quick peel. In fact, that was part of the fond memory regarding the old, dilapidated digital clock.
However, with a final, stumbling and resounding thump into her doorframe as she hopped on one foot in an effort to jerk on her trademark boots, she swiped the backpack hanging on her doorknob and was off.
From the kitchen, her mother called out a quick 'Goodbye! Have fun! Don't talk to clowns!'.
The vampires had gone 'out of the coffin', so to speak – however, this was a bad pun reserved only for the tall and skinny boys who frequented the staircases, news reporters, drunk people or mildly inebriated people at the Prom who'd drunk the spiked punch – a year ago. After a while, one got used to the almost novel idea of vampires amongst 'us'.
Then it became almost irritating when some 'anti's attempted to rouse up 'some kind of upwelling against this, surely, invasion of vampires who are planning to take over the world.'
Gwen would probably be categorized as a pro-Vampire activist if there ever was one, but she was hardly an airhead, or stupid. So this meant that she wasn't exactly panting after some random vampire to Turn her.
(There'd been a girl at their school who'd tried, and then she'd come back in the afternoon whining about how being a vamp' wasn't awesome and was there a way that she could be turned back? She'd convinced Lindsay to bite her as an experimental procedure before she was transferred to one of the all-vampire schools by her rich parents.)
Many people tended to joke that Lindsay – vapid blonde who was the school idiot – was the one who was the airhead, not them.
Because Gwen was kind and nice and lovely and beautiful on the inside and outside (pasty-white makeup and dark lipstick with black-and-gray-green hair and black outfit counted as beautiful, right?), she didn't use that joke. Much. To Lindsay's face, anyway, which is what counts.
Of course.
Surprisingly, on this morning, Gwen arrives to Homeroom on time through some miraculous aligning of the stars, striding to her seat and dropping her books, hastily taken out of her backpack before said backpack was stuffed into her locker. Lindsay was sitting to her right, flanked by Beth, her ever-loyal subject ever since she got her braces removed over the summer.
The bell rang, and Lindsay visibly jumped, skirt going up before she smoothed it down.
After that, the male counterparts in the room visibly flinched and turned away when her naive blue gaze looked around in confusion as to why everyone was looking at her.
Gwen gave a subtle roll of her eyes, leaning over to murmur to Lindsay (who looked over to Gwen with curiosity, since Gwen never spoke to the vapid blonde) "Hey, Lindsay, Tyler transferred back." Said blonde had been bothering everybody over the summer about "Where's Tyler?" and proceeding to ask random males as to if they were Tyler.
Tyler himself had been one of her more, ah, good choices in boyfriends. Not that she had boyfriends – in fact, he was her exact second, by her reckoning, she'd told Beth one afternoon. This was as doubtful as her memory and counting skills, so they didn't take it seriously.
Lindsay turned her blue eyes onto Gwen, lips opening to form the words, "Tyler who?"
Blonde eyebrows creased in confusion without realizing it, and the self-proclaimed goth-girl turned away with a mixture of mild exasperation and amusement. Courtney tapped her heels on the tiles, sitting at the very front – of course she'd be here before everyone else. Duncan, proclaimed delinquent, sauntered through the door and sat next to her.
Gwen just watched and offered a lazy high-five to him, a sort of encouragement – her little mohawked friend had been hoping to 'score' the CIT girl all summer as well. It seemed like everything happened over the summer.
And then there was another thud-thud of feet outside the door, a shuffling, pause, and then an almost musical twoomp-thwoomp as the teacher trotted inside. Giving everyone a dazzling smile and trademark imitation of a 'finger-gun', Chris McLean (AKA; Mr. McLean) was standing in all of his vain, conceited and insensitive-jerk glory. "Hey-ey-ey, victi-I mean, new prospects for educational glory."
Those who had had him last year proceeded to facedesk in despair at their ineptitude in life and luck, and those who hadn't proceeded to do the same, remembering the horror stories from those who had.