Claim the spoils

I slip through the halls of Winslow, head down, avoiding eye contact.

Stepping between a couple of skinheads and a trio of Asian students having a not-so-subtle staring match, I hurry onwards, avoiding the attention of either side.

First class of the day was English, and if I could get there fast enough then I could hopefully have a relatively safe morning. If I sat at the back then there was little that Emma or Sophia could do, provided they hadn't done anything to my chair first.

"I don't know why you're rushing to class. It's not like anyone wants you there."

Shit.

Emma stepped out from behind another student, her smaller form hidden by his bulk, a faint pout on her face.

I automatically shift to the side, the ingrained habit forcing me to try and avoid what's coming even as I tried to strangle the urge, resulting in an ungainly stumble. Emma's pout widened into a smile, ruby red lips stretching back as she watched me, eyes glittering.

Eye contact.

The connection blossomed and the faint glimmers of potential I felt suddenly bloomed into talents. Emma is a model, and her posture subtly reflects that, from the position of her shoulders to the arch of her beck as she looks down her nose at me. Emma has a whole host of smaller talents making up this modelling ability, each one unconsciously underlining everything she does.

Her make-up is expertly applied to bring a faint flush to her cheeks even as it gently emphasises them, while contrasting with the faint shadows under her eyes to leave a subtly sultry look.

Her shoulders are drawn back and her torso is slightly twisted, stretching her shirt and allowing her to lean back just enough to look down at me despite lacking several inches of height. Everything is calibrated to draw attention without making it obvious that this is what she is doing, and Emma was clearly exulting in this fact.

"Even the teacher wishes you'd drop out already."

Conversation.

The connections grew still further, and I see more of what she is capable of, the various building blocks that make up Emma.

I see the different skills that her talent at applying make-up is made from, from the lipstick to the rouge to the eye-shadow. I see more of her fashion abilities, how colours are applied and contrasted and just how much posture and movement affect how good a specific outfit can look. It's interesting to note how the faint idea of hairstyles seems to straddle some gap between these two schools of knowledge.

Behind those talents, in some abstract distance I still struggle to grasp, I get a vague idea of mathematics and English, of music and history. But these are pale shadows compared to the ones I see on display before me, and I ignore them. I'll always have time for those later.

"Or are you trying to pretend that she actually likes to have you around?"

Active use.

Ah.

There we are.

One talent briefly flares up, the connection shining in my mind as Emma speaks. This is the lead up to something, given that Emma is focusing on her words now, deliberately choosing which ones to use. Although I could have guessed that from the cruel satisfaction slowly building behind her eyes.

It's a nebulous concept, shining bright, felt as much as seen and difficult to put into words yet no less clear for that. It's Emma's way with words. Her ability to twist people around her finger as she speaks, leaving them off-balance and unable to speak back. Her way of dominating conversations, of always knowing exactly what to say and which tone to say it in. It's her ability to speak to people and effortlessly glide through conversations where I would stumble and falter.

She tilted her head to the side, eyes widening and smile slowly fading to match the brightening of her modelling talent. Her appearance of innocence grew to contrast the words she was about to speak.

"Or are you that desperate to find an adult that cares about you you'll pretend another English teacher can fill in the gap?"

I'm pulling on that connection, the abstract feeling of how to twist words and sway others slowly starting to fill me up, so that it takes a few seconds for Emma's actual words to register.

When they do it's like a leaden weight slowly settling in my stomach, pulling everything down with it. I can only gape at Emma, shocked despite everything that she would actually say such a thing, and her smile reappears, the vicious glee that she had carefully hidden before springing forth.

"I mean, it's not like your dad actually cared enough to feed you when your mother died. You had to rely on my family for that."

The connections flared brighter, and I started to latch onto them, desperately pulling in the hope that I could find some way to make her stop.

"Are you hoping she'll take pity on you? Maybe one day give you a hug?"

I pull harder, starting to see ideas on how to escape coalesce into being.

"As if anyone would. You're gross, Taylor. You stink, and you're greasy and nobody wants to touch you, let alone come near you."

Her taunts seem to be losing their effectiveness. They do that, every time I copy them, and by the time Emma's usually finished with me they've stopped hurting so much. I think that Emma has noticed this, because she seems to have been getting more vicious lately, and by her look of triumph I think that she's been planning this one for a while.

"For someone who doesn't want me here, you seem to spend an awful lot of time trying to speak to me. It's funny. I'd almost think you cared about me."

Interaction.

The connection flared brighter still, as my talent reached out to her and met her talent reaching for me.

Emma stalls for a moment, seemingly startled by my response, before her eyes narrow and her lip curls.

"You bother me, Taylor. You're depressing, and lame, and every time I see you it reminds me of how much time I wasted being your friend. Years of my life I'll never get back. Years I could have spent doing something worthwhile instead of hanging around with you."

The shock I felt at Emma's words had turned into anger now, and I felt buoyed up by righteous fury at her attempt to sully my mother's memory.

"And yet almost every day you go out of your way to remind yourself. If it really bothered you so much I would have thought you'd just leave me alone instead of following me around everywhere."

Emma seems momentarily speechless, and I have a few seconds to luxuriate in my rare victory. It's foolish, but for now I can savour that look of shock, of confusion on her face, even as it's banished by spite.

"With you walking around like a drowned puppy? Only with rabies. And covered in shit. How can I avoid you when you insist on coming to a school where nobody wants you? Everyone hates you. You're like a slut only nobody wants you."

The insults are coming fast, but most surprising is their lack of coherency. It's like Emma is throwing whatever comes to mind at me and seeing what sticks. I feel a momentary flicker of contempt then, which surprises me as much as my defiance must have surprised Emma.

"Yet you insist on coming up to me and speaking to me almost every day. It's like you're afraid to cut ties or something. What's the matter Emma? Does your life revolve around me so much that even when we stopped being friends you couldn't bear to stay away? Careful, this level of fixation isn't healthy."

The look of pure, unadulterated shock on her face as she splutters out some response is something I'll treasure for a long time to come. I know I'll pay for it later on, when Emma comes back with something suitably twisted as punishment for speaking back, but in that moment I can't bring myself to care.

I don't stop to hear what she has to say next, instead walking right past her with a sniff. In the periphery of my vision I can see a few students looking at us and muttering, but in that moment I can't bring myself to care what they have to say. The fury in me is still smouldering as I make my way to English class, slipping through the doorway just as the bell rings, and I slam my books down on the table, garnering a stern look from Mrs Jeffries, which I ignore.

...

It takes a while to centre myself enough to pay attention to the class, and I do this by slowly reaching out to my other classmates, focusing on one at a time and slowly building up a murky picture of their talents.

Some of the results surprise me.

Who knew that Edward the skinhead would be reasonably decent at playing the violin? Well, probably his friends and other people in his class, but I certainly didn't know that. Granted, I have always tried to avoid anyone displaying gang allegiances, so I guess if I paid more attention to him then I would probably have already known. But that would involve paying attention to an Empire kid, which I really don't want to do in case they start paying attention back.

The connection is weak, mere proximity not enough to allow for any meaningful attempt to copy the skill, and after a couple of minutes I drop it. There's not much point when such a small amount of talent would fade in a couple of days anyway, and I don't even own or play a violin.

I look back to the teacher, but she's still droning on at the front of the class, not even looking up from her papers. Perhaps I'm being uncharitable, but Emma's words have nettled me, and I feel a momentary flicker of spite towards Mrs Jeffries, simply for being in a position where Emma can use her job against me. It's silly, I know, and yet I can't stop the feeling.

I tune her out, gaze slowly drifting from one student to the next, seeing who knows things that I don't and what those things are.

I pause as I get the momentary image of a snake with its head raised, tongue flicking out and tasting the air, deciding where to strike. I wonder where the image comes from, slightly disquieted by the thought. It's not a particularly apt comparison, but there's no denying that there is a certain predatory air to me 'tasting' my potential targets.

I look over at Jeremy, eyes lingering long enough to get an idea of his capabilities before I dismiss him and move on. Nothing of note.

Alicia is more promising, showing some talent with art and a better grasp of calculus than I possess. I mentally flag her for future selection, remembering that I have math class second thing tomorrow, and keep looking.

Matthew seems interesting, as it looks like he has some ability in kayaking and white water rafting. I spend a few minutes wondering where he learned those skills, and just how good he is at them. Maybe his dad would take him out in the summer on camping trips? Maybe he was part of a group of friends that would do adventurous things in the school holidays. Did they try something new every time, or do the same thing because they enjoyed it so much?

I feel a pang of envy at the thought, and I don't know if it's the thought of having friends to do such a thing with or a dad being so involved in my life that such trips were possible. The idea of being able to afford to go on such trips often enough to get good at them is there, but it's an old and feeble twitch in comparison.

It takes Mrs Jeffries changing the tone of her voice to make me realise that I've been staring into space in the general direction of Matthew for several minutes now and I quickly look down at my book, a faint flush working its way up my cheeks. The last thing I need right now is to be seen staring at someone.

No need to give anybody any more ammunition, after all.

I skim over the work sheets in front of me and calm down, seeing that I'm not too far behind. I briefly consider copying some language skills from Mrs Jeffries, but since there aren't any tests before the Christmas holidays for this class there doesn't seem much point.

No, far better to keep looking into other people and see if they have anything I can use or try out in the next few days.

I glance over at Wu and Kyo sitting in the other corner, but then decide against it. I guess I just don't really want to know what skills they might have given that they're wearing red and green. Part of me knows it's ridiculous, that a pair of not-particularly-fit fifteen year olds will have some sort of dangerous skill or will have even done anything to begin with, but I still don't want to know.

One quick mental chuckle at my reticence and I move on to the next student. I turn it into a game, seeing if they have unusual or unexpected talents and trying to construct a story around them to explain why.

It's silly and not very productive, but I surprise myself with how much I enjoy it, and as I slide my books into my bag and rise to leave I realise I'm actually smiling to myself.

...

The bell rings for lunch, and the slight glow of happiness I held inside me fades away, vanishing like an ember in an empty fireplace.

An hour is too long for lunch.

There will be a lot of students in the cafeteria, and I'm suddenly seized by curiosity as to what they might be able to do.

But that means a lot of people to potentially copy talents from. But it also means far more people who might be watching me, with no teacher to take up their attention, and I can't afford to have anybody notice me spacing out like I did in English class.

No. The risk is too high, and I walk off to find someone out of the chill December wind without other students around. For now, I'll simply take it as a break from the rest of school.

Not the first time I've made this decision.

Some of the classrooms on the third floor will be open, some place quiet where I can eat in peace and read until the bell goes. That sounds... better.

Decision made, I turn and start walking, moving slowly against the flow of students, mostly sticking to the wall opposite the lockers and taking a few steps when there's a lull in the crowds. Eventually the herd of students thins out and I can relax, my pace slowing to something more sedate as I make my way up the stairs.

Thud.

Something slams into me at the top of the stairs, sending me flying, and it's only the lucky flailing of one arm that prevents me from tumbling back down the stairs, although one wrist smacks into the rails as I grab them, sending shivers of pain lancing up my arm.

"Watch it, Hebert."

Just my luck. I glance up at Sophia, seeing her scorn and matching it with a facade of impassivity. We stare at each other for a few seconds, and that's long enough for my temper to flare, reaching out and latching onto an aspect of Sophia.

It's her running ability, naturally, and though it's dull and unfocused now it's easy enough to find, and I get to work. For an all-too-brief moment I delight in the thought of Sophia left panting in my wake, unable to catch me as I escape, and I hungrily pull on her running form.

Then reality intrudes, and I realise that all I'm doing is cheering myself on at the thought of running away. As if I could. Even if I copied her running form completely, Sophia would still be much fitter and faster than I am. All I would achieve is to prolong the chase and leave Sophia more frustrated with me in the end.

I blink and look away, awkwardly clambering to my feet, wrist twinging as I pull my bag back up over my shoulder. Then her foot lashes out as I pass her, and I'm back into full body contact with the ground, only a few seconds after rising.

My breath huffs out of me, leaving me slightly stunned.

"That's where you belong. Now stay there."

Sophia stares down at me to make sure I've gotten the message.

Perhaps it was my earlier response to Emma that makes me so bold, but after managing that to find myself still having to deal with the same shit when I thought I'd gotten away and I'm suddenly furious with Sophia.

It's such an unexpected emotion that it catches me by surprise, and for a brief moment I'm unguarded with my expression, my eyes narrowing and jaw clenching with the sheer loathing I feel right now.

Sophia is caught wrong-footed, confusion flickering across her face before it shuts down and a hard expression appears. As I go to rise once more her posture shifts, one foot sliding backwards slightly and shoulders lifting.

I wouldn't have noticed but for the new thread in Sophia that brightens with use, sparking off a dozen smaller connections as her combat training slides into place.

My gaze never leaves Sophia's as I stand, but I make sure to keep my face blank while I tentatively start to copy the combat training. Where did she get it from? I knew Sophia was a fairly violent person, but usually this was limited to kicks, trips and shoves. She'd never karate-chopped me or roundhouse kicked me in the face.

At least, not unless she'd done it hard enough to make me forget it ever happened.

Sophia never breaks eye contact, which I'm grateful for, and my stance slowly starts to match hers. The amusement fades from her eyes and the thread flares brighter.

"You really want to start something, Hebert?" She whispers, and for a second I'm tempted. Could I actually do it? Keep the conversation, confrontation, going long enough to copy enough to make a difference? I doubt it, but it could last me a week, maybe more if I do. I've never copied enough of someone's talent to test it before but now, almost drunk on suicidal defiance, it seems like a marvellously compelling idea.

I'm aware that even if I gain all of Sophia's skill at fighting, she'd have the same and be much stronger and fitter too. But still.

"Come on, I'm hungry. Why the hell are you talking to Taylor, anyway?"

We both turn at the sound of Julia's voice coming from the bottom of the stairs, her tone a mixture of impatience and confusion.

Sophia grunts and heads after Julia, shooting me one last suspicious look as she goes.

Once she does the tension drains out of me like pus from a boil, leaving me feeling exhausted and irritable. Why did I think provoking her was a good idea?

It makes me wonder though.

If I can endure enough of those encounters to copy enough to deal with them, could I eventually convince them to just leave me alone? The talents I borrow are only temporary, but the more they try to harass me, the more opportunity I'll have to borrow what I need to deal with it. And if it then reaches the point where these borrowed talents fade, it means that I might have had a whole week without being harassed.

There's a certain beauty to the idea.

...

I'm almost meditative by the time history rolls around.

I ignore the other students and instead focus on the teacher, feeling the collective I identify as 'history' burgeoning as he starts to speak.

I can see Emma and Madison whispering together in my peripheral vision, occasionally shooting my filthy looks or murmuring to another student, but I try to tune them out.

It's interesting to note which connections grow brighter or dimmer as Mr Thomson changes topic or uses different examples, comparing different points in history. I start drawing from that, feeling that if I'm going to focus on someone in class, it might as well be the teacher.

I still can't shake the thought of just standing there and letting them harass me, or actively fighting back against them. Just the idea of it is making me anxious, and my fingers start twitching, fiddling with my pen and curling up the edges of the paper.

No. That's not necessary. If they catch me then I can copy what I need then, but there's no need to actively seek out confrontations with them or just stand there and wait to be caught. Decision made, I relax somewhat, turning back to the whiteboard in time to catch an annoyed look from Mr Thomson.

"Taylor, since you clearly find this lesson so engrossing, I'm sure you will be able to tell us all when the birth of Genghis Khan was."

I freeze as I feel the weight of everybody's attention, Emma, Julia and Madison clearly enjoying my impending embarrassment. Damn it, when the hell did the lesson cover this? Or was it one of yesterday's topics?

I can almost feel the answer tickling the edge of my memories, and I start focusing on whatever it is I am getting from Mr Thomson while he stares at me, until the silence has gone on for too long and I can only shrug helplessly.

"I don't know, Mr Thomson." I say, looking him in the eye and managing to keep my voice level, just as something else clicks into place.

"Perhaps you should pay more attention-"

"But that's because nobody does. His date of birth was never recorded, only estimated at some time around eleven sixty two, with years of leeway either side. A few years, anyway. His death was on August eighteenth, twelve twenty seven, aged..." I stop and think for a few seconds, "approximately sixty five years of age. Give or take."

Mr Thomson blinks, about as surprised by my sudden display of knowledge as I and everyone else are.

"Absolutely correct, Taylor. However, we weren't discussing the birth, age or death of Genghis Khan, we were discussing the Korean War and how it compared to other wars, using the Mongol invasions of the thirteenth century as a brief comparison."

I flush, and the other students titter.

"Do actually pay attention in class, please. I'm impressed you actually know that, but it doesn't matter what you know if it isn't what you're being asked about in an exam."

I nod and look back to my books, trying to hold my pen steady. I dutifully take notes until the lesson ends, and as I make my way over to the buses to go home I'm left wondering when exactly I learned that information.