..A party in celebration of the long thirteen years Delia Rudolph taught devotedly the young students of Heatherfield Institute. The fact that it was early was of no conclusion once inside the walls of the great hall; the deep Carolina blue would soon seep appropriately into cobalt, with the bands music already drifting from the open expansion that was the welcoming front doors. A quiet calmness took what was left of the day here, mixing it softly into the gentle drumbeat and the cool sound of tyres occasionally curbing past in search of the parking lot. A fringe of icy frost threatened to break here in the wilderness; condensation lining the windows and rolling down what was now untouched grass, the stadium of grounds breathing rest until the morning when pupils would scour their fields again. And if any one soul was to venture onto the meadow - which's green lush was cropped to regime-levels of height - their every movement disturbed the sleeping nature greatly. White smoke of human breath filled the air and quiet voices echoed over the running-fields offensively. In short, the school lay dead; it's striking walls remaining stature, well despite the inner ongoings..

The air held the distinct smell and taste; a foul rank of alcoholic beverages being overlooked by the few staff who had bothered to show their faces, most having planned to say their goodbyes when 'Delia' officially left their highly praised function of institution. Other than that, the blissful oxygen seemed violated; a thick smog of smoke machines whirring loudly, masked beneath the heavy depths of the screaming and songs being famously sung by the likes of Matthew Olsen and his band. Darkness was the next testament to be given; for all was blinding, if not by the dark itself then by the thick strobes of light cutting through it. It was claimed that the nature lay outside civilly, but Caleb found his wide, petrified spring-green eyes recalling the jungle he'd met for the first time barely more than a year ago.

The music still cut through him like solid water and glass being pounded into his skull; words seeming to drone, one into the other as a boy sang out pat Caleb's abilities of hearing and sight. No one seemed to care though, Caleb had grimly noted; it was more excitement than compulsion that led these young men and woman to far too close a proximity to one another, jammed like sardines to the extent that breathing became an effort just from where he was, stranded on the sidewalk of the room. A graceful curve of the few left with sanity in tact, Caleb was glad he'd refused whatever the younger boy had offered him - Andrew something's eyes dilating with every pulse of the beat, though he was sure that the boy couldn't have possibly finished the jam of bottles alone..

And then it happened, and Caleb found himself going into a cardiac arrest; his heart failing the moment his eyes fell to her, he very suddenly wished that he was a foul drunk. Will's body visibly contracting inward with every shoulder she had to push past.

...

Will's eyes found themselves set on the basket; laying barren at her feet and tossed over because she'd had the clumsiness to trip over them. In a spur of hope and impulsion, Will's eyes flashed up in the direction of her doorway, but in gentle, silent steps Will already knew herself to be sought of disappointment. "Is anyone here..? Mom?"

Will clung momentarily to the perfect image of her bed; her dormouse laying namelessly over the quilting, apparently exhausted from the stash of knocked items strewn across of everywhere. The anonymity enticing her in with it's cool grasp of a beckoning finger, but on how many occasions would Will be killed in her sleep? The image of all of her dreaming collided, and then Will's eyes hung gracelessly to hug the simple mark in her floor, where she'd woken with a knife inches from her face.

Her fingers itched at the thought of it in the bottom of her drawer. Except that it'd gone by the end of the first day she'd had it there, and she wasn't sure if it was real anyway. Will let her backpack slide to the floor, before rifling through the clump on second thought to grasp her fingers round a useless phone; a message flashing on her screen to check her voicemail.

On a third thought, she went back and pulled the pendant to hang by her chest.

...

Irma Lair would not be so offended if it was her father pushing feebly through the crowds; certainly, the likeness was enough the same in the way that he would often scuttle from agressing in the irony of a police officer. But the only thing ironic about Wilhelmina Vandom, was the fact that she was such a timid aggressor.

In the harsh light it was easily seen that Will was a fraud; her discomfort on the arm of Matt Olsen giving Irma a sense of justice, along with the fact that Will had gotten her karma of finally being reprimanded on the occasion that it was not her fault. Seen as the girl spent so much time feigning that she'd take their bullets or whatever. "Hey, Irma! Wanna dance with the finest slot in town?"

Perhaps there was one thing, which showed more intent on offending her - the simple notion that Martin Tubbs intended to honestly yank her in some form of waltz was bad enough, but she felt a physical repulsion at the inclining wink he'd given her, indicating that the short, awkward geek had honestly meant that he thought he was of quality. "Go get yourself a room Martin."

"What?" The boy yelled into her ear, only leaning closer when she tilted her head away, forcing her - inactively - to physically push him away by his chest; she tried not to find a bubble of humour in him stumbling back a good few feet from the simple nudge. She grinned when his next move was to trip over someone else's feet. "WOW! Sorry! Sorry! Sorr.."

She watched him bumble there; falling over every person within a mile around him, and only found her impatience wearing when Taranee could be spotted eyeing up their redheaded 'leader' guiltily. By no means, did Irma think that Will was some incredible force of evil - the girl wasn't capable, but the apology given was not enough for forgiveness. As far as she knew, there had been no begging, pleading, nor form of emotional ties to this apology: Cornelia only seemed to tell her that Will had literally said the word 'sorry' and now everything was over. The girl had looked as though she was ready to tear Cornelia into pieces, and Irma scowled as she tore Martin out of the minefield of his own balance. "Jeeze, can't you even stand up?"

It wasn't fair that this was supposedly over. Will was meant to be their friend.