A/N: You lot are great. I'm super pleased with the response; I figured I might get two or three positive reviews and five reviews consisting entirely of the words "YOU SUCK", caps lock intentional. Instead I get ten reviews that are positive and thoughtful. You guys seriously rock.

Super-long author's note at the bottom.

We go further away from standard HS fic fare here. Trigger warning for physical violence and the insults get ramped up to 11 (less funny, a lot more cruel). I'm finding myself feeling strange about this chapter; I know I wanted it to go here, but now that I've done it I'm worried. But I figure I should bite the bullet and post.


When school ends, I take the bus to my mother's workplace, Black Mesa Technologies. It's a scientific conglomerate that spans the country; my mother works there as a geneticist. Apparently she's gotten a new coworker, because when I open the door marked "Caroline Mathias" and enter her office, she introduces me as one of her earliest and longest-lasting test tube experiments.

It's a common work joke for a geneticist, good for a cheap laugh, but I'm not entirely certain she's joking anymore. My mother doesn't talk about my father, and whenever any of her male coworkers ask her out, she claims she's already married – to science. Another joke that might not actually be a joke at all.

No question as to where I got my sense of humor.

"This is Greg," she introduces. "He's replacing Frank."

"What happened to Frank?" I ask. I don't actually care, but it seems polite.

"Oh, he walked into a transmatter reduction beam. Vaporized instantly, I'd assume. There wasn't any screaming, at least."

"Doesn't that seem…unsafe?" asks Greg. "To walk into something without knowing what will happen?"

Everyone has a different response to idiots. My mother ignores them completely.

"But we did learn not to walk into the transmatter reduction beams, so that's something," she finishes, ignoring Greg.


It likely comes as no surprise that the closest relationship I have with anyone is with my mother. So when I say that I'm surprised by her reaction to the news of my newest hanger-on, it means quite a bit more than if anyone else were to be surprised by a family member. Usually I can anticipate her response to anything I tell her.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" she growls.

There are a number of reasons why this reaction is surprising. For one, Michelle is female - and I quite clearly stated her gender. For another, there is no reason I can think of for her response to be so extreme. My mother very rarely curses, not for any sense of propriety, but simply because she feels that swears lose meaning when used too often.

"Who are you talking about?" I ask, because it is intuitively obvious that she is not talking about Michelle.

"Be silent," she says, and for once I am shocked into silence. This is the second time in less than thirty seconds that my mother has taken me by surprise. As a scientist, she usually welcomes questions, as long as the answers aren't obvious.

She takes a few breaths, thinking about something. I don't know what.

It's no secret that I hate people. I hate when they miss things that are obvious to me. But I also hate not knowing something.

This is the first time that I have found myself hating my mother, and I find that unsettling. Michelle has just stretched her disruptive fingers into my home life, and I briefly visualize strangling her, watching her silently plead for breath.

Then the murderous flash is gone.

My mother doesn't say anything to me for the rest of the night, and I find myself hating her just a little bit more for it.


I take it out on Pendleton the next day, of course. Every sentence out of his mouth is greeted by a response as biting as I can form. Doug tries to work up the courage to stop me, but fails, as usual.

He's a failure, a fucking headcase. His schizophrenia will prevent him from ever being worth anything. He and Pendleton belong together, two losers who'll never amount to anything.

I see Michelle for the first time when I'm on the way to the bathroom. She's walking to her locker; I briefly wonder if she's got a free period or if she's been skipping class. Then my mind goes back to last night. I feel like an outsider in my own mind. I don't see red, or anything as cliche as that. I feel cold, calmer than I've ever felt before. I realize that this is what rage is, not red or hot or any other meaningless fucking metaphors. It's this detachment that allows me to slam her against a locker with my forearm pressing into her throat.

Her eyes go wide with surprise and a little bit of fear, but she doesn't make a sound. I want her to say something. I want her to realize that it's all in her head, she's not actually mute, and she's being a stupid fucking cow. I want her to say something because then I know I'll stop caring about anything to do with her.

"Tell me to stop, you bitch," I hiss in her face. "Fucking say something, or I swear I'm going to fucking kill you."

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she punches me in the kidney.

It doesn't have much force behind it; she can't get much leverage given how much I've pressed her into the lockers. But it breaks me out of whatever trance I'm in, and I pull away from her, letting her take in a gasping breath, followed by a fit of coughing. Her hands go to her throat in some unconscious reaction that likely does absolutely nothing to help her.

"I hate you," I tell her as my heart slows down. I haven't realized just how fast it's been pounding, and in the back of my mind I wonder how it can be going so fast when I've felt so calm.

Her response is to kick me hard in the shin, and I grin despite myself, despite the pain in my leg. This feels good. It's refreshing, when everyone else just puts up with my shit, to find someone who will fight back.

She glares at me, and I can almost hear what she means: "Don't do that again."

I shrug in response. "If you're looking for promises, go fuck yourself."

She snorts, and walks off down the hall. I watch her for a few seconds, then I suddenly remember just how badly I need to piss.


Lunch is strangely awkward.

I'm a bitch. A self-centered, heartless bitch who doesn't give a shit about anyone else. I don't do guilt.

But when Michelle shows up to lunch with a bruise forming across her neck and some paper-towel covered ice in one hand, whatever feeling I have - that's certainly not guilt, definitely not - makes conversation stilted and awkward around her.

"What happened to you?" asks Pendleton, staring shamelessly at the mark.

Michelle doesn't answer verbally, she just bites her lip and winks coquettishly at him. He flushes bright red and doesn't question anymore.

Doug is more astute; he glances at the bruise and then looks at me, eyes flicking down. While he might be looking at my tits, I doubt it. As far as I know he's not even slightly interested in sex. More likely he's looking at my forearm, comparing it to the bruise on Michelle's throat. And as much of a nutcase as he is, he's also fairly smart. I'm fairly certain he's already reached the correct conclusion.

He glares at me before he realizes I'm looking at him, at which point he shrinks on himself and goes back to whispering to his plush cube. I probably don't have to worry about him. As long as his fear of me overpowers his dislike, he won't say anything.

Even if he does, I can switch schools. I've done it before, and I'll probably do it again.

Even as Pendleton blathers on about his usual moronic fare, the usual cutting remarks don't come to me. I should be talking about how stupid the television shows he incessantly talks about are. I should be quipping about his substandard IQ, laughing at his repeated denials.

Instead, my gaze returns to Michelle's neck against my will, watching the lightly purpled skin slowly return to normal.

As much as I tell her I won't make promises, I find myself absolutely certain that I will not let myself get that far out of control again. As much as I hate her, I find myself hating the idea of not having her even more.


A/N 2: Several things I want to say here, so if you're uninterested in my soapboxing, feel free to skip.

Authors always seem to talk about characters taking a life of their own. Add me to the list, readers, because I did NOT see Caroline becoming important to the story. Originally she was there as a sort-of response to CB's review. Then she started taking over. Now she's pretty much integral to the plot. It's another incentive to review: you may actually end up fucking my plans over and making the story change. Great.

One thing that I should get out of the way is that Gladys and Michelle will get it on. Michelle will not speak, she will not start writing notes to Gladys in order to communicate. The closest she will get are the "looks" that Gladys will interpret, which is not a real means of communication. This means that dubcon is pretty much inevitable.

Please be aware that in real life, this would likely be considered rape. One of my best friends had this happen to her. I thought everyone knew it, but apparently not, so I feel I should say it clearly: if your partner does not clearly consent to sex, it is rape. Consent is not "he or she looked like she was enjoying it." Consent is not "he or she didn't say no." Consent is your partner saying something to the effect of "I want to have sex with you at this time."

On a topic that isn't quite as serious, I do know what I'm talking about as far as choking. Most of the time when people think of "choking" they think of squeezing the throat. This actually restricts blood flow, and causes the person being choked to pass out. Pressure restricts air flow without cutting off circulation, lengthening the time before unconsciousness. The more you know...

Yes, I made a Firefly reference. Deal with it.

Tl;dr: I'm a self-absorbed author who can talk about the writing process as though I know what I'm doing, sex without consent is rape and should not happen, and I know more about choking than is probably healthy.

Extra-special review thanks to 1Past and Present1, Her Little Doll, CB, Neko, and DramurKopa. As much as reviews are beautiful, yours were super pulchritudinous.