Sam stomped down the sidewalk. She kicked gravel and litter out of her way; fellow pedestrians escaped similar treatment only by preemptively noting her murderous visage (and, consequently, removing themselves with speed). Occasional over-the-shoulder glares were the sole indication that she cared whether Tucker was with her or not.

When the incident had happened, neither she nor Tucker could part the crowd. The other students' restrictive, individuality-destroying, conflict-creating, stupid social hierarchy had been turned on its head—or, rather, thrown into a table. Of course they would enter such states of surprise that the cafeteria became housing for a single, impenetrable congregation of morons.

Never had she smelled such a nauseous mixture of meat, garbage, sweat and something that was distinctly teenager.

That had to be why she'd felt sick to her stomach; that had to be why she'd shoved so desperately at those around her.

She had managed ten feet of progress when Mr. Lancer made it to the center of commotion, imploring anyone who could hear him to call the paramedics, to call the police. After scanning the room, she had discovered Tucker near the wall, where there were fewer people. He held up a cell phone and mouthed, Taken care of, his face blank.

Lunch ended early. Other staff members soon arrived to aid in herding students from the room. She and Tucker had hung back, standing just beyond the bottleneck at the doors until everyone cleared out.

"Time to go to class," a custodian said tiredly, holding his broom lengthwise to bar them access.

"We need to speak to Mister Lancer," Sam stated matter-of-factly.

"You can talk later. Get to class," he stressed, sweeping toward the door and the hallway beyond to emphasize his point.

She and Tucker made eye contact. After a brief, silent conference, they deftly ducked around the broom-brandishing man and started running.

The custodian sighed. "Lancer will straighten you two out."

After several paces, Tucker slowed to a walk. Sam continued regardless. Her boots echoed a tattoo of frantic clunks against the tile, and she could no longer blame the sickness she felt on meat or garbage or sweat.

No, it was seeing Danny lying prone beneath a table stained with blood.

"Danny!" she had cried without thinking, then clamped her hands over her mouth. But the damage was done; Mr. Lancer looked up from his position (kneeling to check Dash's status, when Danny was the one bleeding, when Danny was the one unconscious, when Danny was the one who had acted only in self-defense). Sam had glowered right back at their esteemed vice-principal.

"Miss Manson, Mister Foley," Mr. Lancer had begun, discomfited, "I regret to say that the five-minute passing period is still..." Abruptly, he changed tact. "What do you need?"

Sam knew that Mr. Lancer's teen-empathy was comic at best, but he had to recognize some of the peer groups around school. Indeed, that very morning, he had chastised Danny and her for passing notes. She opened her mouth to voice her outrage—

—but rational thought had wormed its way in. What could she or Tucker have done that hadn't been already?

They both had rudimentary knowledge of dressing wounds; however, their practical skills extended to the concealment of small injuries. Danny took the brunt of attacks, and his regenerative abilities in ghost form ensured that only small scratches or bruises ever transferred over. Attempting what was beyond their depth when medical professionals were to arrive shortly would have been counterintuitive—in addition to being uncomfortably telling, considering the faculty presence—and hiding what had occurred in front of hundreds of people seemed pointless.

Danny had seemed unlikely to benefit from moral support at the moment, so that option was out.

And somehow, Sam had suspected that aiming a Fenton Thermos at their half-ghost friend wouldn't help the situation any.

Some of this must have translated to her body language, for Mr. Lancer continued, "I understand that the appropriate..."

"Done, Mister Lancer," Tucker had interjected. He started to display his cell; instead, he hugged it protectively to his chest.

Mr. Lancer's lips had pressed into a thin line, but it was the only indication of his habitual displeasure for rule-breaking. Sam's temper flared; after all, it was him who had allowed the students to use their phones. "Thank you, Mister Foley. If that is all?"

It had been a clear instruction to go to class, whichever way it was posed. Tucker touched her arm and turned to leave; she stormed out after him with one last, fleeting, helpless look at Danny. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she did not leave in compliance with Lancer's dismissal; she did so after her own assessment that neither she nor Tucker could be useful there. It was by free will that they joined the other sheep.

In the two hours that followed, Sam's frustration had been allowed to fester freely. (When Paulina wondered loudly, "How did that loser even get close to Dash?" and somehow convinced the Paulina-drones that Danny snuck up on the quarterback, Sam "ruined!" the other girl's pedicure and placed an angry mark on Paulina Sanchez's stupid, "perfect" shin.)

When the bell rang, Sam had immediately sought out Tucker and demanded, "Are you coming?"

Slightly ill-looking but nonetheless determined, he nodded.

And so, Sam stomped down the sidewalk, repelling the citizens of Amity Park in a manner otherwise reserved for the Fenton RV.


A/N:

Hurrah, computer access once more. I feel terribly for leaving all of you hanging like that! Thankfully, this is not all I have written since my last posting, so the next chapter won't be nearly so long in coming. However, we are having guests later this week, and there is still much housework to do (which is a large part of my absence—sorting through tens of bins every day for hours on end rather drains one's "creative juices").

I've decided to include a snippet from a future chapter. (Spoiler alert!)


"What's it matter to you, anyway, Plasmius?"

Vlad could have snorted. "Are you so naïve?" He raised Danny off the ground. "Do you honestly expect decades of experience, study and relentless exercise in prevarication to leave me in a position to be bested by the average fourteen-year-old?" Pressing Danny into the brick wall, he fastened a hand around the boy's throat.

Danny merely glared. Then—

"Right." Vlad thought it a victory when Daniel seemed to realize a portion of his own shortcomings. "If I'm exposed, there goes your leverage. Got it. I was waiting for the 'self-serving Vlad' part of your visit to kick in."

"Precisely. Now, need I remind you what may transpire if you continue—"

"I'd love to hear it," said Danny, abruptly shifting into human form, "But..."

A shout sounded from the street beyond. "The Wisconsin Ghost!"

"Did I forget to mention that my friends meet me hear every morning?" With a cheeky grin and scream of terror, Danny bolted.

"Oh, butter biscuits."