Spider-Man Chapter 4: Newfound, a Spider-Man + Loud House Crossover fanfic

Recap/Summary of Chapter 3

The DPD responds to reports of a shooting at Herman Industries. Dr. Drew Carson's body is discovered on a bed of computers. The majority of the equipment used in an experiment has been destroyed. An officer concludes that it was the work of some 'sick bastard.' Later, a man by the name Dean Crawford is interviewed. He claims to have witnessed the shooting and possibly the perpetrator making their escape. He recounts seeing bulky armor, and somebody mounted atop some advanced 'flying' technology.

Lynn and Lincoln meet to head to school together. The air between them is awkward, especially because of the incident Lincoln had. Lynn gives him a lollipop to make him feel better. Lincoln starts to think; he has been feeling a weird sense of power, and has been experiencing weird flashbacks. He hesitates to tell Lynn about the spider-bite. When he goes to throw the lollipop's wrapper out, it gets stuck to his hand. Reminded of his fingers plucking the typewriter keys off his keyboard, he begs Lynn to pull it off, who, while confused, obliges. He thinks really hard to try to stop it from sticking, and while successful, he doesn't quite get how to do it. They end up staggering back and falling on the ground from the releasing tension.

Meeting with his friends in the cafeteria, they mostly agree to head to the movies. Stella is not present during this meeting, nor is Birtz. Rusty and Zach decide to play a form of Pigeon Toss in hopes of winning money for their tickets. Lincoln believes he is sensing emotion again, and this time the feeling makes him feel sick. He opts to go to the washroom. Clyde insists he comes as well, wanting to 'talk.' Meanwhile, Arnold sits at a table with Xavier, Nathaniel and Chandler. Nathaniel has put forward that walkie-talkies could be used a new method of distanced communication. This suggestion reminds Arnold of his brother, and he insults Nathaniel in the heat of the moment. Thinking of something they can do, Xavier tells the group that gang-members around their age have been pouring into Royal Woods. Arnold, still angered, asserts they should chase them out of their territory. They all agree, though Chandler hesitates. They pressure him until he agrees.

While Lincoln washes his hands, he is reluctant to explain what had happened to Clyde. He confirms to himself that when he senses worry, it feels like a pocket of ice-cold water is in the middle of his chest. This is evident because he can tell that Clyde is worried, and the cold pressure in his chest has returned. Clyde insists Lincoln tells him, after all the years of friendship they've been through, he can tell him. Lincoln thinks it through, but the bell rings. They give each other a quick hug and they had to their respective classes.

Without further ado, let's get into it!

Chapter 4: Newfound

Dad never came home. Alarming.

Dad didn't answer his phone. Alarming.

Birtz staggered off the couch; grizzling in foul morning breath. Oh God, he thought almost instantly, my alarm didn't wake me up. The second his eyes flew open he had read the hands on the clock above the fireplace. It was already quarter to nine. Class was just about to start.

"God fricking dammit," he bleated, stumbling for his backpack, "they're going to kill me."

He could imagine walking up to the doors as if on a death sentence, buzzing in shamefully: Please state your name. Birtz Robern. Then he would walk into class and the teacher would stand up with hellfire in her eyes. 'Late slip?' she would ask with a voice that jarred on the ears. Dozens of eyes fixing him with an emotionless look that would nonetheless scream at his face, the slip would quiver up like a leaf.

Last time he checked, arriving late is often 'rude' and 'disruptive.' Well what do you know? That's life. It's not like he's all, 'woohoo, we're hooking another late slip on the belt. We should throw a party with shredded homework as confetti and pairs of compasses as silverware. No, this was the second time being late out of what, 250 school days? All the teachers had been late more times than that. But of course, they make excuses and the students have no choice but to take them. But the students never get that privilege. Are you trying to give your students a sense of entitlement?

He went to his bedroom and unplugged his phone. Looking back, he should have just brought it to the couch. At least his alarm would have triggered right into his ear. That would've set him straight. If Dad was home, he would've whipped him once. Had he gone back to sleep, Dad would've whipped him a dozen times, maybe more. If some people took things with a grain of salt, Dad took everything with a fistful of it. One time Birtz walked in with a C on his lab paper. For the rest of the week, Dad fixed him with an unwavering stare and took away some of his privileges — hey, if you don't please me I won't let you be pleased, screw you. Thunderous clouds gathered at his head. He was probably seen as a leech.

Drawing himself up, he slipped into his backpack straps and took to the kitchen. Breakfast had to be simple . . . uh, a banana would do. There was no cereal. That stuff has a lot of sugar, it's like dessert for breakfast, Dad had said. Birtz thought he needed to stop speaking like he was the Pope, or even his dad for that matter (He rarely treated him like a son at all). Just look, not all cereal is sugary garbage, man.

Holding the banana to his mouth like a pistol, he peeled the skin back, clamped his teeth onto it, and ate. Then his stomach pinched. He fricking hated bananas.

It would do, though. It was punishment for being stupid. He would make sure to keep running himself over, because he wanted to be damn sure he'd never make a mistake like this again. Just like his outfit too; a wrinkled white tee and a sandy pair of jeans. Top it off with his crown of matted-with-grease brown hair and boom — this was truly apple-knocker caliber.

At the front door, he pushed his feet into a pair of red basketball shoes. Then he checked his phone again to be sure of the time. The numbers 8:52 bobbed out of the screen's darkness like a buoy that had materialized underwater out of nowhere. And suddenly something else did too; those same two words that always hooked him in; Herman Industries. Great, what did Dad accomplish? Birtz had always been told we're doing great and everything is abundant, but never got any real insight. Hopefully he'd finally get a sneak peek.

That was not what happened.

Instead, his heart did a 180 and sprung back into his chest when he saw that one word.

SHOOTING.

A shooting at Dad's company? ALARMING . . .

Birtz was rushing for Dad's room just as fast as the bad thoughts on him had waned. Above a flight of stairs and a strip of the indoor balcony was the master bedroom. Dad's bedroom. He had never had the 'authority to go in there. But now, he didn't give a flying F. Some kind of instinct had leaped up inside him: you need to make sure Dad is alright!

His brain made an effort to convince himself Dad was okay, but he saw a different truth in front of him. The door was half-open, the lights inside the room off — and a limp foot jutted out from behind the foot of the oak bed frame. Shit, it was Dad's foot. But surely he was safe right, if he was at home and not at work . . .

"Dad! Dad?!" Birtz cried, brushing through the doorway and skidding to a halt. "Are you okay?"

Dad didn't move. He clapped his hands to his forehead and slid his hair back. "Dad!"

He was just about ready to slap him on the back when Dad muttered something near a grumble. Birtz opened his mouth . . . but closed it. Dad's eyes had wrenched open, the pulse in his neck visible. He pushed himself up on inward palms. His skull was tight all around, straining the most at the back.
(Later, you better make some adjustments to that helmet because not doing so is asking for more trouble than your head is already in.)
A grungy voice. He whipped around. "Who's there?"

Birtz squinched his face up. "Me?" Something mindly made it difficult to say: "Your son."

Dad's face softened. "I'm hearing things. Voices." He fixed him with a wary glance. "He's talking. Do you hear it Birtz?"

The ticking of the clock (the one above the fireplace) turned up from the back of the room. Beneath that Birtz found nothing but silence. He stood there, taking his view from one point to another, trying not to look at Dad. He was confused. This was out of the ordinary (though he often thought Dad was speaking bullshit). A part of him wanted to believe this was just a prank — that Dad, for some reason, had became one of those overly-eccentric dads from a stale television show (often involving some family in which everything went wrong ironically). But when he finally looked back at Dad, he could see anything but in him.

"Nobody is talking," Birtz said as if he had been faced with a tantrum-bound child. "You're hearing this . . . him . . . where?"

Dad stumbled, reaching, reaching for something, but nothing. He went ear-first into the wall, driving himself up with a few extra steps, his breathing finding its way up and down, but somehow not high and low. He pointed to the door.

"THERE!" he screamed, his eyes threatening to turn to glowing amber pits. He wanted to clutch at his hair and rip it out.

Birtz went to the door and checked the hallway, his heart seized by a nervous tattoo. There was nothing. He scratched his head like an animated cartoon monkey; though his hand more so tapped it due to the way it was trembling. He stepped forward, glanced over the balcony. Again, there was nothing. The clock was ticking still, it reminded him awfully of how silent his house always was. Even in a time deemed chaotic, at least to his house's standards, there was dull silence. He turned back, and stood at the doorframe.

Dad started at him suddenly.

He scuttered back, shuffling his feet in a way that would later guide him to his ass. He pushed himself up against the banister, its architecture digging into his back. Dad reached the doorway. He laid both hands on either side of the doorframe, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his frantic breathing. Now something was undoubtedly off — not because Dad was angry, but because he had never expressed it in this way before. Dad pointed accusingly. Though his finger wasn't even near him, Birtz still felt as if he had been jabbed in the chest.

"Listen here you little, stay out of my room. Don't mess with my business you hear me? I can't stand being disappointed by you— disregarding my rules, putting my work to shame, not doing well at school. After everything I've done you thank me with this behavior? Anything I've done, you've just heaved out of the window like garbage. You hear me Birtz? GET OUT OF HERE AND GET YOUR ASS TO SCHOOL!"

He stepped back and slammed the door. Now it wasn't so silent anymore, and instead of (tick, tick, tick) the whole house shook with (KA-BLAM!).

Birtz, latching onto the railing, pulled himself up, his eyes narrowed, mouth blank. Something assured him that that should've induced an immediate reaction; but nothing. His eyes were stinging, but he did not care. His nose was tingling, but he hardly noticed. His breathing was close to spluttering, but — you guessed it — he did not give a shit. He climbed down the stairs with slow deliberation, his ears now starting to ring. His movements seemed numb. Nothing seemed real.

He went to his bedroom, looked at the bed which had been neatly sheeted and pressed last night, and nudged the door behind him closed. He padded to that bed, nearly dragging himself through those motions like a zombie. His vision was blurry, but he still didn't notice. He got on his knees, bowed his head, and slid his hands under his bed. Those reaching hands closed on a case, slipped away near the back (much as he kept a can of Ginger Ale at the back of the fridge to hide it from his Dad). It was still as it had been for the past 8 or so years; glossy smooth, blanketed in dust, and out of Dad's knowledge. If Dad had known about it, his time here would have been a great deal shorter than he expected.

His chest began to tighten to a close. He opened the case. The lid unfastened in a metallic snick. He reached into the case and picked out a photo, a plastic sleeve shimmering above. Past those shimmers . . . he saw people. Now his vision wasn't blurred. Tears wormed out of his eyes and plinked onto the photo. There he was, bordering 7 years of age, head rested on the shoulder of a woman. A shoulder-length flow of brown hair, lips stretched in a genuine smile, eyes brown and sparkling. Mila Robern. Birtz's mother.

She was dead. Brain tumor. Only days after this photo they found out. Only two weeks to live. After her death, they moved to the United States and took up Michigan because that was where the main headquarters of Herman Industries had been established. The other building back home was probably not in service anymore. Maybe it had gotten bulldozed, or maybe it was put to another use. Whatever it was, he did not care. When he thought of home, he thought of Mom, not the damned business; he thought of everything as it had once been, before everything hit the skids.

He started to cry now, tears guttering his cheeks, but there were no sounds from his mouth. He was not wailing at a sudden wave of emotion, nor crying for it to be over, but just taking it all in. He had regressed it. This was not an emotional outbreak; if you were to describe that as a surge of emotions, this was a small flow.

And so Birtz, with this photo clasped against his stomach, quavered, "God dammit, why does . . . things, just shit like this, have to happen to people? Why? Just why?"

"C'mon Arnold, we got an opening, let's go kick his ass man." Nathaniel is almost on the verge of begging, the get-on-your-knees-and-clap-your-hands-together type.

Arnold watches the lanky prick snicker to himself, his back hunched like that Doofenshmirtz bitch, the hat of white hair around his head wafting back-and-forth like a goddamned pom-pom, his arms like sprigs out of the hedge which he, Xavier and Nathaniel have ducked behind. He lowers his eyebrows, his eyes pressing into slits. Now he can not see Loud, at least clearly, but he does not give two shits. He knows that stick can't put up a fight even if his life depends on it. There is no plotting, analyzing or considering to be done; he has learned this from firsthand experience. He doesn't even need to move to kick Loud's ass. He'll just end up finding a way to do it himself.

He pushes himself out of the hedge and suddenly finds himself on the seat of his pants. Xavier comes over, hooks both arms under his armpits, and hoists him up like a toddler. This small yet impactful gesture induces something to swim up inside him. Now he remembers — and becomes a bit too aware of — Adrian again. His head starts to feel like a boiling pot of blood. His heart starts to run up his chest to his neck, but he hardly notices. Adrian . . . Arnie. That one day Loud had called him Arnie. Fucking Arnie.

He has already made sure that Loud got a good ass-kicking for that one, but now that doesn't seem like it was enough. He has already warned him once, but apparently Loud is a slow-learner. That is okay. He would be glad to give him a short refresher course on who he could mess with and who he could not. Perhaps they can step it up a bit more this time, speed up that learning process a little.

On the verge of going postal, his hands draw into thin-fleshed balls, stubby fingernails notching half-crescents into the padding of his palms. His face is becoming hotter, but he hardly notices. His hairline is slicked with sweat, but he doesn't notice that either. Nathaniel pats his shoulder consolingly and Xavier pulls him into a side-hug.

"Relax," Xavier says. "You're going red. Seriously."

Arnold calculates the distance between the three of them, here behind this hedge bordering the sidewalk, and Loud, loitering around the third entrance. If they were to attack, they would need to slink across the blacktop with little to no crowds to keep them hidden. Without cover, Loud would see them. Maybe he would scream for help at the prospect of seeing three of the guys who had clobbered the shit out of him on that rainy day in March — he wouldn't put it past him after all . . . he figures that Loud might have dropped the dime on him. Every teacher has been eying him with narrow-eyed suspicion lately. Maybe something has gotten out; but that only drives him up the wall even further than he already is.

"All of you shut up," Arnold hisses. "We got a whole lunch period coming up to fire on him. We do it here, the little shit's gonna yell it up and get an adult. I don't care what you say, he's like 50 feet away and we're 3 guys, all with an obvious presence. We also have no cover. Now when lunch rolls around, we have a caf full of students to watch, with barely any adults to interfere. It's a dream waiting to come true. Kickin 'his ass and embarrassing him in front of half the school."

He nods at them and they nod back. Then they all look at Loud, holding his phone with one hand and blankly picking his jeans out of his asscrack with the other. Justice would come eventually, Arnold knew. And when it finally did, Loud would end up too scared to even walk the halls.

"For now Nate," Arnold continues, "just run it through me one more time. You were in class, and then what?"

"Take out your books, chapter two. You know the drill."

Lincoln shuffled through his accordion, pulled out a thick book written by some Canadian guy, and flipped to the second chapter. They had been reading this new book in class. They were also likely to end up overanalyzing it instead of just letting it be a good story (like they had done with the last one). He found that a bit annoying, but he still enjoyed reading nonetheless. He got a lot of inspiration from some of these books. They would not only give him new word choices or a sudden urge to write his mind; instead, they would conjure up a sudden urge to improve himself with some of the character's morals. Did he act on it though? Not really. But sometimes he did.

The class began to drone on. Okay, Mrs Erickson, okay, I forgot my book, Mrs Erickson, what page is it on again?

He ran his finger along the first few lines, determining it as an interesting start. So far, the book had been about a strange line of disappearances that had occurred over a few weeks. It took place in a secluded town, its community tight-knit. The story was driven by two detectives who were assigned the disappearance cases. One of them, named Jarett, was very tight-lipped and seemed very stubborn, while the other, Garton, was often submitting himself to others' bunk. Their differences conflicted, and consequently, they ended up losing the killer in a chase after catching him in the act.

He gave himself a headstart on the read. Jarett awoke, and the first thing he felt were his eyes . . . stinging. He edged into consciousness. The room faded in one at a time. He could see wavy blue curtains, wheat-coloured walls closed around him . . . and Garton. He stood as stiff as a board, his arms locked behind his back in the mannerisms of a child who had taken something they shouldn't have. He hummed in interest. Given the last chapter's abrupt end (Jarett pursuing the killer through the woods, falling short, and cursing at him was described as the last thing he vividly remembered) it did not take him by surprise. He continued to read, his mind distant from the things happening around him . . .

"Mr. Loud, would you like to start us off?"

His heart danced. Oh, okay, sure.

He spoke. His voice came out around the room, loud and awkward at first (he sounded more like a nervous tutor overseeing a new class rather than a confident upfront speaker), but it gradually loosened up. His heart palpitated as he spoke, and sometimes he felt it crash against his ribcage. It was the kind of beating that made his legs feel numb and his head heavy. He stammered every few lines or so. A strong belief stood tall in his head, as if a single stutter would turn heads; and in their eyes he would feel some sort of damnation, as if he had ruined everything. Shut the hell up, he thought briskly, and tried to stow it to some kind of out of reach place.

He was a few pages in now. Garton wasn't a heavy smoker, but sometimes a little knock on the lungs gave him the kick he needed to distract himself. Whether it was a bad day, an unsolved case, or a disturbing thought, the cigarettes were his knight in shining armor. The smoke jetted down his throat, his lungs chock-full with ashy clouds. The first time around — which was usually every single smoke for Garton — had the initial drag making you feel like choking. Vomiting. Maybe even passing out. But that made him feel good. It wasn't something he necessarily wanted to feel, but it was something he needed to feel. God, they were good. He was paying to hurt himself. But that hurt took him away from everything else that hurt. Out of all the things he remembered from math class, 'two negatives make a positive,' was one of them. For others, maybe it didn't work, but did he give a shit? No, he did not, because it worked for him.

Something about that hit close to home; maybe it was how he kept his emotions mostly hidden, or maybe it was how he sourced comfort through personal destruction. Either or, it still struck an unsettling note in him, and he clacked his teeth together.

He padded down to the door, the Newport jutting from his lips, praying to God that this one wouldn't seal an addiction. The hall outside smelled of mothballs and mint leaves. There were only so many rooms; about five down this hall, ten on the second floor, and three on the third. Each of them led to an elevator (though the ground floor had the reception lobby). There was an occasional closet, or whatever they were called. Everything else (the nursery, emergency room, dispensary . . . ) were connected to a separate building by a roofed bridge. The walls were glassed in, so pressing a hand to them would either make you writhe with chills or snap back in blistering pain, depending on the weather. That might have been an annoyed exaggeration, but that was surely what would happen to Garton every single time. He was often called to this building and hated everything about it; from the atmosphere to the design, from the staff to the poor management. It was only now, when he was alone, that he could feel it. His frustrations only came chuffing in when he closed himself off; away from people who could see him; away from people who could judge him. That was how his parents brought him up. When he got angry in front of them, they would stick him on the mat. Showing anger was for the weak, and he wasn't weak—

"Pause," Mrs Erickson said. "Come in Birtz."

Lincoln looked up. Birtz hadn't been in the cafeteria this morning; instead he had probably been shagging ass through blustery April weather, grimacing in determination, following that same day-to-day route to school. He was finally at school though, and now it was already too late. Maybe not too late, they had only ridden out about 10 minutes of class time without him.

At the door Birtz stood, hands clasped together primly and hanging limp in front of his jeans, a late slip nipped in one. A row of his teeth champed on his bottom lip, occasionally wiggling side-to-side with discomfiture. His eyes swirled around the room. For a brief moment, they settled on him. Lincoln waved fleetingly and smirked like a wolf, but Birtz did not respond. Instead he walked hurriedly to the teacher's desk, handed her the late slip, and slipped into his desk near the back of the class.

Naturally, Lincoln would have expected to be a little . . . offended. But an expression had rippled across Birtz's face, one that made Lincoln scratch his head. It seemed to be painful, but he still could not recognize it fully.

Class resumed and seemed to last forever. Lincoln had finished up reading, passed the torch onto someone else. Occasionally, a mocking falsetto would waver out from the back of the class. Surprisingly, it was none of Arnold or any of his punks' monkey business. They were probably too stupid to be in his English class anyway. They probably took the easiest level and were still barely passing, maybe even failing. They wouldn't be able to hand some of the stuff they did in this class, because afterwards, they analyzed some key parts of the chapter, recorded some notes on specific quotes (he was dead on when he predicted they would overanalyze every single word), and finally packed up at the wake of the bell.

When they were finally dismissed, Lincoln entered the hall and waited for Birtz, hoping to clear things up, why he had disappeared the other day. He came out finally, neck craned out in a candy cane hunch, his English binder squeezed between his elbow and hip. His eyes glowed when he saw Lincoln, and he cracked a toothy smile.

"Hey Linc, sorry I ignored your greeting back there, I was swallowed by a pickle."

Lincoln knitted his eyebrows. "A pickle?"

"Pickle is a way of saying I'm in a tricky situation. We just got out of English class, come on dude, know your expressions."

Shrugging, Lincoln motioned his head toward a flush of students. Kids stood shoulder to shoulder, hugging each other's backpacks, stepping curtly. Birtz looked over at the traffic jam, then back at Lincoln, horrified. Lincoln shrugged again. It was either squeeze in there or be late to class.

"Let's go," Lincoln said.

"You're a nut."

He smiled. "I know."

Lincoln joined in, and Birtz followed briefly. The air around his face immediately became sultry, feeling as if his skin might've been glistening beneath the hallway lights, and for a second he thought about just waiting until the storm of students blew over, but he thought better than it, and continued onward, knowing fully well he wouldn't make it to his next class if he didn't. His English class sat here on the North side of the school, while his next period was set at the South side of the school, near the rear entrance. This school was nothing small either. On the first day, he almost cried because it felt as big as the local shopping mall — and from his past experience in Middle School, he was bound to get caught on the hop.

Much as he hated social situations, this one happened to be more tolerable with Birtz at his side. Hands gingerly resting on the backpack of the kid in front of him, his arms like spindles, his jeans wiggling with the work of his legs beneath his sunken belly, he twitched his gaze to the ceiling, staring edgily. Then he looked for Birtz, saw him, and struck up a conversation. They talked about the entomology paper, their ideas, and also about how he had fallen sick, he also shared about the nightmare and had a brief moment where he thought about telling Birtz about the spider and how he had gotten sick from it but in the end decided against because he might tell others and who knows maybe even contact the GLOD.

He collected his thoughts (which had run through his head in a panicked haste) from that moment, replaying what had just happened. Had he told Birtz, everyone around him would have heard. This wasn't some superhero movie where the main character could publicly yap about their biggest secrets and have everyone around them magically deaf to it. Speak one word; circulate one word. That was how it worked around here.

He wouldn't be around here for long, though. He would be going to Math later to feed himself some numbers and probably some letters too. Then he remembered; one of Arnold's friends, Nathaniel Morrison, had been in his Math class. He sighed in a considerably low voice. The class was split in two. There were advanced students who would be imposed with extra content and the academic students who would just float along the normal plan. He bet that guy was failing the class, without a doubt. Most a-hole bullies sucked at school. They reaped the attention they got from their damning actions, whether it was good or bad. But that's about everything they got out of school. At home, they were presenting a bad grade and then getting their ass belted.

People were moving faster now. "Linc," Birtz said. "I'm gonna go grab my Math stuff, meet me back up at class."

What seemed to be a boulder dropped into his stomach and sunk it. Flipping hell. He'd have to go back to his locker. Arnold was always around that area, either him or at least one of his goons. It was where they had most of their run-ins. He was lucky to have avoided him all together this morning. He was hoping he could slink away on-the-sly, but it occurred to him that he hadn't carried his Period 2 binder with that of Period 1. And if he wasn't quick with it, he would be late to class, and his math teacher's patience wore thin quicker than a freshly-lit sparkler.

Lincoln flicked a thumb up. "Alright, see you in a minute."

Birtz tore out of the student body, earning some glares, and was gone the next second. Lincoln did the same, but instead moved with gawky fashion. Flames of embarrassment burned in his face. He started down a narrow hall, absently looking at the floor between steps, hoping not to be noticed. A passing set of eyes fixed him with a vague look. He shied away from it anyhow.

Now he was entering the stairwell. Sunlight, falling narrowly in thin beams through skinny windows and outlining a flight of dust, welled on the landing. It wasn't a beautiful gold. It was a dull gray, just as it had been this morning. Just as it had been when he woke up under the pressure of a nightmare. Just as it had been when he realized something was wrong with him. He trudged down the stairs, his hand pivoting on the railing, his heart leaping up and crashing against his ribcage in loud thumps.

He scurried down the hall to his locker. When he finally arrived, he glanced briefly at the Post-It notes which had been stuck on his neighbor's locker (reminding himself again that he was just a loser with basically no one to turn to), and then focused back on his own, putting in the combination. He snatched out his Math binder, recklessly tossed the one for English in (along with the book), and slammed it with a clang of metal. Certainly he had time to make it to class, but just one look at his phone would feed him that assurance he needed, fill that void in his stomach and keep it from turning, churning, and doing a thousand other terrible things.

He was slipping a hand into his pocket when a voice called out, "Hey Linny."

Linny?

The heck?

Lincoln perked his head up, a floating comical question mark literally floating above his head. "Huh?"

There was someone walking up to him, their auburn hair shrouded by a lime hood, chinos hugging their legs like a second skin. It was Chandler. The Chandler McCann. Lincoln stood stiff and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "It's me, Chandler. Guess what, I got my dick sucked last night so I'm in a good mood. So I'm not firing it up on you today, feel good about it," he spoke with a suspiciously peppy bounce. "Want some butter?"

Lincoln probed, "Uh, butter?"

"Uh, you know, the dope stuff?"

He stifled a nervous laugh. "I don't smoke."

"Fine," Chandler said, his eyes half-lidded. "See you around bone-man, and by the way, tell your sister she left her underwear in my bedroom, and that I liked the blowjob."

Lincoln cringed. Ew. Don't bring stuff like that up about my sisters of all people.

Chandler swished by in a puff of choking cologne, presumably wandering off to fail another class or something. Lincoln tried to move again but grimaced at what felt like a trail of fire running up his chest and to his throat. Suddenly he found himself clutching at his sternum, short-winded. His heart blasted up to his head. A raging inferno was confined to his heart, burning, aching, drawing tears to his eyes. And it all didn't go away until Chandler had swept across the corner and disappeared . . .

For a second, he wandered off in confusion. This might've been him sensing emotion again. Or it could've been something different, a new emotion he can sense. On this assumption, Chandler seemed to be way too happy today. If Lincoln was sensing happiness like that, he had a great deal of pain and suffering to look forward to. It had felt like the gates of hell were unleashed in his chest. Or maybe Chandler was using that to hide something else. He cycled through what had just happened. His face, tied up in a simulated smile, what had he been hiding behind it? It occurred to him that fake smiles were used to hide pain, or similarly, sadness. But Chandler was never sad, he was a bulging bag of ego. Maybe he was trying to lure him into something.

That thought made the most sense out of the others. Anyways, where was he?

Producing his phone out of his pocket, he checked the time. His eyes widened, breath catching. 10:15? Goddamnit, there's only 30 SECONDS TO GET TO CLASS!

He ran, his heartbeat banging up his chest like a townsman locked out of his own apartment, his feet pushing him at incredible speed but still moving with the most agonizing slowness you could ever imagine. The chains of lockers fringing the halls streaked by — in only two seconds Lincoln had taken 20 steps and made it to the stairwell — but he paid no mind to that because he just had to make it to class.

Jumping up the stairs (he skipped three at a time like some gym monkey), he went into the upstairs hall and sprinted down, weaving around stray students. He would've expected them to yell out 'Hey!' or 'Watch it jerk!' but nothing. Maybe they did go 'Woahhh' and one kid yelled 'Holy shit why aren't you on the track team?!', but there was nothing too cruel. It almost surprised him.

He was nearing the classroom now, shuffling to a stop. As if of their own choosing, his head craned to the ground and his shoulders squared, and they stayed that way as he lurched through the doorway. His glance favored all the shit and piss that had probably gathered on that floor more so than anybody around him. He went to his usual spot, second row, in the middle.

The silence was tense, nearly palpable. He slid his Math binder to the corner of the desk, shored up his chin with an turned-up palm, and watched the whiteboard vacantly. His teacher, sorting through a small stack of paper, occasionally looked up to scan the students, probably to see who had made it to class and who had not. His turning head halted in his direction, and for a second, Lincoln's stomach lurched. But then Lincoln realized he was looking in Nathaniel Morrison's direction, narrow-eyed. He knew, Nathaniel had taken a seat in the next row, at the back.

Nathaniel Morrison was one of the guys who had jumped him in March. It took him a day to put two and two together. On the day of the attack, he was dressed in black. Hoodie, hat, shoes, bandana, everything. He would've never known who it was if Arnold never called him 'Nate.' That was his nickname. Everyone called him 'Nate,' like how a lot of people addressed Lincoln as 'Linc.'

When realization dawned, Nathaniel's presence would start to reduce him to a trembling mess. He made him think of Arnold, and thinking of Arnold sent tremors through his body.

That had to change.

Shaking the collecting mist out of his head, he tore a loose sheet of paper out of his binder, got a pencil, then stared up at the ceiling with it poised at the ready. I'm gonna write him a piece of mind, he thought. Show him that I'm not gonna be taking it all like a piece of meat. A cautionary voice at the back of his head: no, no, don't! He did not care, actually, and he would be doing just that, thank you. He was going to puke up all his bubbling frustrations on this sheet of paper right here. Give that prick a message. He was going to—

An imaginary rope snaked down in front of him. Its butt whipped up. The letter L. A bubble burst next to it. The letter O. A second bubble. Another O. His confused head darted to the side, looking next to it. The letter K had pitched up in a line of ratty baseballs. His brow arched for a second. It was telling him something.
LOOK OUT.
Then sweat started to bead around his forehead (in such a manner that seemed slow, but was really fast in the moment), his eyes casting to the left of their own accord. Something was coming out to hit him, bound for his head. He wheeled around and nipped a paper airplane straight out of the air.

He brought it to his desk, sat it down, and studied it. Then he looked back, realizing who had sent it. It had to be Nathaniel Morrison trying to hold his sides. He was right. Now he was studying Nathaniel's face, the corners of his mouth pulled down in shock, forming a huge, open-mouthed frown that highlighted the rest of his face, making him look stupid. His eyebrows pitched down and nearly touched ends, and he sent his arm up in a snappy motion.

"Gimme that shit back," he hissed.

Lincoln looked back at the paper airplane in his hand. Whatever he had felt in that moment had gone away now. There was no inclination to give Nathaniel a piece of his mind anymore. He was back to being a trembling mess.

"O-okay," Lincoln said uneasily and offered it up with a shaking hand.

And so Nathaniel snatched it back, glared at him, and straightened it out on his desk. Lincoln faced the front again, his mind distant. He thought back to what happened. What had those things been? Those things which had appeared in front of him; the letters shaped out of what seemed to be random thingamajigs? He chewed on his bottom lip, stuck in thought. Something was telling him to . . . look out?

Now he recalled; what it had conjured up in his mind wasn't that he might've been high on shrooms, rather it was the time he had caught that fly in the middle of its droning flight. He had managed to calculate a direct trajectory, what exactly to do in the moment, all at a speed that seemed all too slow fxor the time it was really done in. Maybe this was it. (It explained all of it, except for that strange boost of . . . authority? If that's what it was) He had, maybe, a new . . . sense—

The cacophony of the bells shook the walls.

His math teacher stood up. "Alright guys! Good morning! Today we're starting a new lesson!"

Lincoln listened attentively, his hands overlapping on the desk, his intrigued ass so far up the seat it was probably riding up the edge. The teacher rambled on for like three hours before he felt someone nudging his shoulder. He thought about looking for a brief second, then tossed a harried look over his shoulder: the kid a desk behind him, putting a doubled-over piece of paper forward.

His eyes alternated between the teacher and Lincoln nervously. "Nate wants to give this to Arya, just pass it forward."

Lincoln looked at the note then back at Nathaniel; his hands had been clapped to his eyes and dragging down his cheeks in swollen droops. He mouthed something, and though Lincoln was no lip-reader, he definitely said, "No, not to him!"

Not trying to turn this into a situation, Lincoln quickly turned around, leaned forward, and tapped the shoulder of the guy sitting in front of him. His tongue was instinctively washing over his lower lip. He was nervous, and hopefully the person sitting in front of him (which he didn't know his name, he didn't care enough to remember it, nor whoever the hell Arya was) wouldn't mind sparing him two helping hands, one for Nathaniel, and the other for Lincoln, to keep the former from jumping on his tail.

The guy sitting in front of Lincoln leaned back, parking his chin on his right shoulder. "Yes?"

"For Arya, from Nathaniel," Lincoln whispered.

The guy darted his gaze to Nathaniel, then back to Lincoln, and nodded. "Okay, quick."

Lincoln held the note out, and he grabbed it. But Lincoln didn't let go. The guy tugged at the note, but it didn't even move under his grip. Now he was confused, looking up at Lincoln, muddled. "What are you doing man, let it go, we're going to get caught," he whispered.

"I can't," Lincoln said. "I can't get it out of my hands, it's stuck."

"The fuck are you saying?"

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut. It was the truth. It was stuck. He instantly thought back to the incident with Lynn and the plastic wrapper, how it had gotten stuck to his palm, and how it had brought up that horrible moment where he had destroyed his laptop's keyboard. The thing was, this guy was the last person who would understand. Especially considering they were walking a tightrope right about now.

"Just let it go, dumbass—"

Suddenly the teacher materialized out of thin air like one of the ghosts from ARGGH!, hands at his hips like an angry three-year-old, and Lincoln's breath was squeezed out of him. He swiped the note out of Lincoln's hand (comically enough, the time his grip had to lessen was the moment they got caught) and for a horrible moment, opened it up and looked it over. "Passing notes in my class huh?" He went to his desk, releasing the tight band around Lincoln's chest that had seized his breathing. "Nathaniel, send your love poems out to Arya on your own time."

The room fell to deafening silence. Damn, Lincoln thought blankly. I'm dead. I shouldn't be, but I am. It's not my fault he was passing loves notes in class like it's 1995. He looked back at Nathaniel, horror-stricken to see how we would react. His face was sunken in his palms, face scrunched up and all. Second-hand embarrassment circled the room in a whirlpool. He's gonna kill me for this. He doesn't understand. And even if he did, it wouldn't matter, like he would give a shit.

Nathaniel scowled at Lincoln now. "You sold me out like that, after what we told you," he whispered, his voice fuming.

What we told you . . . they're gonna make my life a living hell.

Reality setting in, he flickered his eyes to the desk and stammered. "I-I-I didn't mean . . ."

Nathaniel held him with an unwavering death stare. He was trying to find an adult rhythm of speech but failing. He could never be an adult. He might've had balls of steel, but once they dealt with the scorching heat of someone's fury, they melted into nothing but puddles. No matter what, he would end up backsliding into a quivering hunk of Jell-O, wimp flavored.

"Your ass is grass, cum-top," Nathaniel whispered, his upturned thumb grazing a line across his neck.

When the bell finally rang, Lincoln hurried out of class, every few steps punctuated by troubled glances over his shoulder. Then he scurried outside to get some fresh air.

Just down the hall, an opening to the cafeteria streams out pale, baby blue light. Lincoln feels a certain pressure in his stomach, like it has been tumbling around wetly, sloshing and sloping. He traces the outline of his phone in his jean pocket, checking for the seventh time that it's still there. A strong urge tells him that Arnold is on his ass, and he probably is. Nathaniel has already ratted him out, no doubt about it. Hell's gotta start somewhere.

He feels the need to refresh himself. However, he has already gone outside, and that did him no good. He has checked out some memes, but that did him no good. It may have sparked a bit of laughter in his chest, but that had lived as long as his confidence in telling off Nathaniel did. It may have traced a smile into his lips, but it did damn all to ease the thundering beat of his heart, or the paranoia turning his head every five seconds. He tosses a harried look over his shoulder again; seemingly nobody is behind him.

Now entering the cafeteria, a boy with white hair standing on end (likely because of the wind from outside), his back arched down, he walks to his usual table, not even looking up because his legs already know where to take him. He looks up and sees Clyde, twirling his fingers around nervously, Zach, his glasses canted on his forehead and dragging his red hair back, Rusty, suspiciously sniffing his lunchbox through a half-zipped opening, and Stella, staring down at the table crossly. Birtz isn't there for some reason.

He stands there for a second, but they don't notice him. "Hey," he finally croaks. "Am I a ghost to you?"

Clyde's head jolts up, getting up on his feet. "Oh, sorry about that." They slap their hands together, knit them, and pull away; a kind of handshake greeting that they have always used. "How was P1 and P2 buddy?"

"It was alright, nothing special happened," Lincoln lies. He looks at everyone else at the table. "What about you? You guys look excited."

Zach chuckles. "Yeah, I may not look it, but Rusty bet me 25 bucks on the Pigeon Toss thing and I won. Looks like my movie tickets are covered."

"I should've won. You probably cheated," Rusty says. The left corner of his mouth draws back in a sneer. "But I guess cheaters always win. The world is run by em."

Lincoln has no idea what has initially happened between the two of them, so he has no say in what has happened. However, he does know that this game of Pigeon Toss has been the go-to for a few years now, and has always been won fairly. So, there is an impulse to take Zach's side.

"I didn't cheat. You threw your coin so hard it hit another table. So I won automatically," Zach smiles. "No redo, no exception. You lost."

Rusty bows his head, his face reddened by embarrassment. "Oh goddammit, let's just be quiet!"

A few laughs squeeze through his pressed lips, uncontrollable yet still comforting. He sits down, sliding in between Rusty and Stella. He suddenly realizes now that he doesn't have a lunch; and also realizes that he isn't hungry. He doesn't have money, either. And spending it on a lunch will not do him any good because for one, he is not hungry, and two, he might have to pay for all that damage he did to the sink.

Now he starts to feel warm again. Shoot, he thinks rapidly, hell better not take reign in my damn chest again. Luckily, that is far from what he is experiencing. The warm, tingling, near numbness travels down his legs, up his chest, through his hands, around his neck . . . everywhere. Now, he starts to think this might be a fever, or some type of disease, but decides against it. He may be sensing emotion, again. He just might be.

He looks at Stella and smiles, "Hey, can't believe you'd ditch us like that this morning."

Stella perks up, eyes nearly opened to the point of popping out, and laughs accusingly. "What, I'm not allowed to hang out with other people now?"

"Joke," Lincoln says abruptly. Then he turns to Clyde. "Where's Liam?"

"Probably dead."

"Okay."

He rests both of his hands on the table, ignoring the persisting warmth that is flooding him over. He keeps his face blank, but fights hard to keep it from twisting up into something more worrisome. Propping an elbow onto the table, he rests his head onto his hand. "You guys have an idea on what movie you wanna watch? Stella? Can you even join us? You were . . . noticeably absent earlier."

"Oh I'm sure I can go," Stella replies while tracing the coiled hair around her ear, "I just need the green light from my parents."

Lincoln looks at Clyde, gives him one of those I'm-waiting-for-an-answer eyebrow raises he knows all too well, and adjusts himself. The persistent warmness has started to bother him a little. He cups his hand around his ear and tilts his head forward, trying to be comical. This does little to draw him away from the warmness. It wells up inside him as if he is chocolate fountain, spilling over the top of his head and coating his skin in what feels like muscle pain relief gel. He drums a few fingers on the table.

"We should watch a Sci-Fi movie. Know Zach loves flicks like those," Clyde suggests. He slides his ass up the seat, lacing his arms on the table and leaning in. "I saw a great trailer for one, I got to show you it, it's on my phone."

His hand in a banked thumbs-up, Rusty scans over his fingernails. "Zach has some crap taste, let's watch anything else."

Zach lowered his eyebrows. "Bullshit!"

"Now, now kids, let's calm down," Clyde says semi-sarcastically, raising both hands up once, then pulling them down again. He sounds awfully like a first grade teacher from a 1990s cartoon.

"No! He just dissed me!"

"And? You diss him all the time, big deal."

Zach jets a bunch of hot scoffing-because-you-have-no-argument air out of his nose and casts his look away. "Whatever."

He thrusts a hand into one of his cords' pockets, rifling through some spare change and probably paper clips too, their scuffle spinning out the pitter-patter of nickel and copper. His hand closes around something. It is almost as if a giant masthead of fabric has formed on the side of his pants. His eyes widen and sparkle. Now Lincoln is watching with intent. Zach pulls out a quarter. Its periphery is streaked with what appears to be a red marker. He offers it up with an open hand, but when Lincoln reaches to grab it, his fingers snap shut.

"Hey, don't touch. I'm just showing you my winning quarter."

A hand falls on Lincoln's shoulder. "Your winning quarter? Can I have a go?"

Looking behind him, a smile tracing his lips, Lincoln says, "Oh crap, Birtz has come back."

Birtz is looking down at him, dawning like the morning of a fresh spring day. His eyes seem to shift from one person to the next, and Lincoln has a growing suspicion that he has already met the gang before. Maybe he did. There are definitely many things he missed from the time he had been sick yesterday; far from only being the afternoon classes, or the dinner his parents had made, or . . . yeah. That seems about right. It is not like he can pinpoint much else. Sure, maybe Birtz did talk to Clyde or something, introduced himself. But that is to be expected. They made a deal to introduce Birtz to the friend circle, and he is the kind of guy to go up front and do things himself. A lot unlike Lincoln.

He scoots to the side, bumping into Rusty, looking into his eyes with a certain look (scoot over big fella) and slaps the now open spot next to him. "Get your goddam butt on this seat, Dirtz!"

Birtz laughs hoarsely and sits down. "Got it."

"I'm here too! Clyde let me get in that spot," Liam says hurriedly. "If you don't, I might have to throw you over to Jake. He said he's hungry."

Liam is here too. Looks like he survived being with that strict teacher.

Lincoln chuckles heartily. For the first time in forever, he is so happy that his head feels light to the point of tumbling off his neck and rolling across the floor like an out of control basketball. For the first time in forever, his friends have came together and spent some real time together. For the first time in forever, he has hung out with Birtz without trailing around the guilt of leaving his . . . gang. His squad. The inseparable ACTION NEWS TEAM! from 6th grade. This memory does nothing to stop his laughter, instead wavering more of it out.

Nothing, and he means nothing, could ever ruin this.

Arnold is going to make sure that absolutely every single thing Loud enjoys will take a hardy trip down the shitter.

He looks down at his shoes, drawing his knuckles in. His heart has been running laps beneath his ribcage, the big type of running that kills you from the bottom-up. To his side, Xavier snaps his fingers again and again, fixing them with an unwary glance. His eyelids seem pried open, as if by two of those big clamps they use in woodworking. Nate stands in front of the two of them, leaning here against the locker, his nose bellying in and out with the rhythm of his livid breathing, his fists firm at his sides, knuckles digging into his thighs.

"You ready?" Arnold asks.

Nate pounds the locker. "The hell I am!"

"Oh, yeah let's go," Xavier says with a startled wag of the head.

They get underway for the cafeteria, three boys with a certain presence that make passing students steer out of their path, their strutty walk turning heads. Arnold knows this; he has known most of the guys since elementary school. Before they came here, to Royal Woods High, they were running shit back at their old school. At the time, Xavier Ferguson was only 12 years old yet already six feet tall and 130 pounds. He should have been over six-foot five at the start of grade nine, but that never happened. His growth hit a rough patch around the seventh grade, when he was maybe six feet two and a half. Nate was (and still is) considerably average height but had (and still has) slabs for arms and legs. Everyone had (and still has) more than enough sense to mess with Nathaniel Morrison. He throws a mean uppercut and right hook, even good with kicks too. Natural-born fighter.

As for himself, Arnold doesn't know. When he tries to think about it, a list of his abilities aren't conjured up. Instead, all he sees is . . . himself, a kid with a high social profile, but nonetheless, nothing much more special than anybody else in any other sense.

He shakes the culminating thoughts out of his head. For now, all that mattered was imposing that promised beating on that dumbass Loud. A promise is a promise, he thinks, nothing I can do about it. Is what it is. Yes, that's what matters. He continues to walk in unison with these other guys here, Xavier and Nate, doing his best to ignore the nagging thoughts at the back of his head, or the skin-tight khakis hugging his buttocks. Goddammit. Did these pants shrink or something?

Now at the cafeteria entrance, Arnold leans up against the doorframe. "Chandler joining us?"

"No, he's tryin to get the little shit's trust," Nathaniel says. "Prolly gonna make it seem like he's on his side while he's actually working for us, like some spy or somethin, you know?"

Arnold's lips begin to tighten. "Sounds like a plan."

They enter the cafeteria, multiple tables cutting to silence in the horror of their presence. Nathaniel and Xavier huddle up to Arnold's sides. Their faces are oddly the color of spoiled milk and their chins have fallen back as if they're on the verge of throwing up from nerves.

Arnold stops in his tracks, looks at his two friends, and nods. "There he is. You ready? You guys don't look ready."

He wheels his head back at Loud, now staring out of slits. The smile on Loud's face makes him feel a certain way; that stupid buck-toothed grin that has always made him want to grab Loud by his stupid face and slam it into the floor so hard he'd turn into a meat lasagna. Does he deserve to be happy after going against Arnold's word? No, he does not. And Arnold does not need to deal with that shit, no he does not. He'll be sure to end it right here and now.

His legs now moving of their own choosing, he struts to the table, his eyebrows tracking nothing more menacing than a V of fury. "Hey Loud!"

The smile on Loud's face is suddenly gone now, his eyes flying open with deathly surprise. His head turns up with agonizing slowness, its color rushing out in an unseen cascade.

Arnold approaches the table, resting his hands on its end with tented fingers. "You have some nerve to come around and mess with me again. Remember what I said, Loudy-boy? You mess with my business, and I'm gonna beat your fuckin ass. Remember? Think harder. You've never thought hard enough. You didn't think before messing around, did you? Did you think before jumping in to save some kid you don't know?"

Some of Loud's friends have directed their gaze at him, but Arnold doesn't care. He holds Loud with a firm stare, his mouth cracked open in a smile that was not entirely evil, but menacing in the moment. He squints his eyes, watching as Loud's head cants down, shades of red pooling in his cheeks, eyes starting to glisten. "You owe me Loud, don't you? Say it," Arnold laughs. "Say it loud and clear, it's true to your name."

He can feel the oncoming stares of his fellow schoolmates. Reaping the attention makes him feel like a balloon about to explode. It feels . . . great. It's the feeling of payback.

Then that stupid kid Birtz decides to step in, literally shooting out of his seat like a red-hot firework.

"You get the hell away from him!" Birtz rages, his piny voice stabbing into his ears like two dental drills. "Ever been taught to keep your scrawny ass cat in the bag?!"

Arnold laughs; a-deep-from-the-gut belly laugh that starts to turn more heads. "You need to learn to keep that big ass kisser of yours shut. I hear you all the time buttering the guy up. Loud, you think anything he says is true? It's not. It's all bullshit. He's just kissing your ass so he isn't friendless. Just think about it. Kicking a bully's ass? Bullshit. Being good at sports? Bullshit."

His mouth smiles casually, excited to see his reaction. Now the cafeteria is only characterized by deathly silence; and Arnold is sure that this situation is everyone's center of attention. Loud's ass-whooping will be the cafeteria's highlight of the year. The old two for one: first came the whooping, then the commemorating. He looks at the eyes of Loud's friends, and in them he reads horror, directed at nobody else but Birtz. For some good reason too, for them at least, but Arnold couldn't give two shits. Birtz's teeth have bared, his knuckles drawn in and quivering sporadically, the cords in his neck sticking out like a sore thumb.

"And he's only about to make his move on these people, now. He's tired of you, Loud. He wants new friends. You're nothing but an old doormat."

At a rate of knots, Birtz lunges forward, hands reaching. Arnold takes notice, putting some ground between him and the little pansy, but to no avail. His hands claw at his jacket, seizing both of its lapels, nearly making Arnold stagger back. If only he knows… If only he knows what he has gotten himself into. A flaming ball of anger finds Arnold's stomach. He grips Birtz's arms, wheels around, and throws him into the side of the cafeteria table, the impact releasing a low thrum. Pain hisses out of Birtz's mouth, sounding a lot similar to that one Family Guy episode where Peter slipped, bust his ass, and clutched his knee. Just smoked the shit out of him, Arnold thinks.

Arnold brings his attention back to Loud, leaving Birtz as nothing but a blur in the corner of his eye. His eyelids quiver and his lips wrinkle as if he is about to cry, a tuft of snowy-white hair at the back of his head springing back-and-forth with the rhythm of his trembling head. A wave of revenge-driven anger shoots through him, catching him in his joints, making him move closer to Loud. An unconscious smile molds itself onto his lips. His hand comes up, reaching, ready to yank him off that seat to hell . . . then he's gone. The hell?

His eyes flicker up, lips drawn back in a bewildered sneer. Loud has . . . slung back in his seat, doing what looks like a plank, but with his feet planted. With motions nearly too quick for Arnold to comprehend, he bends back more, pushing himself out of his seat on inward palms. His eyes dart side to side nervously, almost as if he is unaware of what has just happened.

"The fuck?" Nate slurs.

Xavier rushes at Loud from behind, but rams himself stomach-first into the table with a clang of wood and metal, a few of the little pansy's friends jumping out of their seats. Loud has done one of those backflips where you use the thing in front of you as a sort of 'stepping stool' to boost you up. Now Loud stands behind Xavier, who has his hands knitted across his stomach, teeth gritting.

A raging fist tears into Arnold's chest, seizing his heart with a type of force which makes his blood boil. Loud is certainly reaching for the blinding lights of heaven, or maybe even a one-way ticket to meet his great-great grandpa.

He starts towards Loud, grimacing in harsh determination. His eyebrows have skewed in the shape of a V, nearly touching ends. He cocks his fist back. A conjured-up image renders Loud with a smashed-in face, teeth falling out and everything, and his legs seem to push him further. He is close to Loud now. This is his chance . . . his chance for payback. The time has come; tax-day. I'm coming to collect.

He throws his fist forward, streaking a path in the shape of a half-circle, ready for the meaty thwack of Loud's cheek getting hammered or the satisfying crack of his cheekbone, but nothing. A note of confusion wrinkles his nose, and he realizes that Loud has disappeared.

Then something bumps off his legs, and now his ass finds the floor with its own meaty thwack. And that fucking hurt.

His hand flies to the brutally warm numbness that has begun to fester in his buttocks, and he seethes in pain. He flips onto his side, his eyes now pointed at the vinyl tiles which have been scuffed by what seems to be a thousand years of foot traffic. A few tears find his eyes but he blinks them away. Loud has wiped him out. Swept his legs and put him down on his ass. How the hell is that even possible?

He struggles to his feet, searching for Loud, his fists tightened into wrecking balls which in the moment, feel like they can take down buildings. A billow of anger swirls in his head, blocking the coherence of his thoughts and making him work through the pain of his searing ass. His eyes search for Loud and he scrounges around in circles like a racoon. Xavier has gotten up, short-winded. Nate, instead of being the last man standing, is now on the floor, clutching his knuckles, mouth in some kind of tragedy-grimace. How? Him too? Now Arnold is even angrier. Hurting my guys huh? Think you can do that Loud?

At long last, he catches Loud with his eyes. He is just in front of Nathaniel, his hands laid on one of those big pillars shoring up the ceiling. His eyes glow with a mixture of confusion and fear. Just the way Arnold likes it.

"You put your hands on my boys even more huh?" Arnold hisses. He grabs Nathaniel by the arm and hoists him up. "I have more than a few words to give you."

Arnold shortens the ground between him and Loud, sending his fist forward, ready to unload a weeks-worth of fury on him. He screws his face up in a sneer. Loud is so close now that he can almost feel his fist crashing into his face. Then that little featherweight is gone again. Where is he now? He halts his step, spinning around, looking for him, but something shoves him forward. This isn't any ordinary shove, this is some muscle-guy-on-the-beach type shit. He ends up flying off his feet, going at least a meter before hitting the floor with a heavy whomp!

This stuns him. A bit too much. He feels a bit light-headed now too . . . maybe he should take a nap right about now— no, no! You have a job to finish!

Driven by nothing else but the adrenaline of the fight and his pent-up hatred, he gets back on his feet, wanting to root out Loud, wanting to stop all this bullshit. Arnold and his guys should've been triumphing, not that human manifestation of a string bean! He convinces himself this is just a matter of luck, not skill. This is just an off-day. Yeah, that must be it. Loud's eyes are still glowing with that same jumble of so many negative emotions, and he doesn't understand why. If anything, they should be focused.

Making one last mad dash to end it all, he bellows at Loud, head down, eyes scrunched into slits. He is numb to the fire rippling through him, blind to Xavier and Nate on the ground near him serving fresh hits from Loud, deaf to a coming teacher's cries to stop.

And . . . down to the floor again. He purses his lip as if on the verge of crying. Knocked down by Loud again. He doesn't even know how or why, he couldn't give a shit even if he wanted to. Now, he can hear the cafeteria's climate; kids screaming, some wavering out ridiculing falsettos, some hollering 'OH SHIT!' and 'GET HIS ASS!' Everybody has seen their washout of a fight and those who haven't will; all three of the big guys . . . Arnold, Xavier, and Nathaniel . . . taken down by Loud. Loud only.

They lost.

They fucking lost.

Someone, probably a teacher, walks closer. "Stop! STOP! All of you quit it!" What sounds like heels start clicking towards them, probably another teacher. Arnold can hear a second pitter-patter of working feet, probably another teacher too. "Loud, Ferguson, Sawyer, Morrison! We need you separated. Now!"

With all the fight knocked out of Arnold Sawyer, he pushes himself up weakly, now really feeling the pain — and not so much that choking anger.

June 4th 2020.

Half an hour after I was destined to head for the broad landscapes and ranging governmental functions of geography class, I was stuck to a plastic-bottomed chair. There might have been a fight. Okay, there was a fight. I also sure as hell finished that fight. Not willingly, though. At the time, like most of what happened during this . . . discovery interlude, I didn't understand.

Listening to Arnold and his squad as they got tongue-lashed was all worth it though. Oh boy, did some of their tough-boy facades drop when they faced the administration.

First I listened to Xavier, and with his goofy appearance, I could only imagined how dumb he looked. His voice, hoarse and grating, spiked up and down with croaks, each word trailing off in a squeal. I had to squeeze my lips together to keep myself from giving their trip to the woodshed a personalized message with my signature. Considering his light blonde hair, which was messily combed, and that big honker in the middle of his face, he was bound to look like a squatter who had gotten caught stealing from the school's community garden. Next, I got some cuts of Nathaniel's talk with them, and he basically gave the game away. Most of the things, however, were lies. He said that I initiated the fight by 'screwing around with his crush,' which was by no means true. What was her name even? Arya, I think? I wouldn't even be surprised if he glossed some water down his face too, adding that dramatic effect.

Something was off though, because when Arnold took his turn, he stayed quiet. Not a word. He was the one who put the torch to the wood, so I would imagine him trying to switch that verdict back on me . . . but no. It was deathly silent when he had to respond. I was just thinking, just talk, it's not like you're going to need a lawyer.

Afterwards, when I was faced with the administration, I did the same. At the time, it was very unlike me to do so. But something about that gesture struck me. I had an idea — maybe it would level out the playing field. Throwing him to the snakes would only make his hackles rise. So maybe if I stowed the details away, he would back off for a while. That was at least my thought process. I mean, I did kick his ass once, but I didn't want to have to do it again, and again, and again.

It was a bit tense sitting in that chair, feeling their stares on me. Chills wrenched up my back when I initially entered the office. They had the AC blasting. Bunch of idiots.

At the end, they had little to no 'real' information. They could've called up Lincoln's friends or some other guys who had been near the fight, but they decided against it. They all told similar stories and me and Arnold did little to deny them.

After around an hour of back-and-forth interviewing, we all got off with a suspension for the rest of the week. I almost crapped myself at that prospect, only because my parents would lose it even more than before. An equation in which you add a destroyed bathroom and a first-time suspension from school wasn't all that great.

I had different things to look forward to however, even though I was completely oblivious at the time.

Lincoln pads down the hallway with slow deliberation, the weight of the suspension keeping his legs heavy. He passes by a few windows which stare out into the wan aura of this April day, his wet eyes caressing the big trees and the flutter of their fresh leaves. Freshly grown, hit with a gust of wind; thrown in the deep end. He looks back ahead, barely registering the few students in the hall. Some turn their eyes up at him, but he chooses to pay no mind. Certain of them shape some gestures with their hands, sliding in some ground between them and him, but ultimately he chooses to stick to his own knitting.

Blinking away any of the tears trying to escape, he finds his locker and opens it, pushing through the odd stares trying to hold him. Homework-wise, the future is not bright, but not dark either. Dim would be a good way to put it. The only thing he really needs to do is get his entomology paper done. The other subjects would be out of his way because of the suspension. Maybe there would be a bit of catching up to do, but that would do. It is what it is.

He squeezes his science binder into his backpack with a rugged shove, fits his accordion right at its back, and maneuvers the bag's zipper closed. Thinking of everything he's going to miss, what he might miss out on, he shrugs into his pocket-bomber, readying himself for the blustery April cold. The moment he steps out that door, he'll be leaving so much behind . . . one could say it's just as simple as a new friend group he has knit together, but everything goes much more deep-seated than that. He has just discovered that the foundations for a problem that has bugged him on end for years have just been laid. With him gone for the rest of the week, how can those be built upon? Will they do it without him? Will they . . . abandon it?

No, that's absurd. He shoos the pointless, miserable, thunderous clouds away form his head. They'd understand, they saw everything with their own two eyes, he thinks. It's only like, three days. Stop it Lincoln. Plus, you have the movie on Saturday right? Oh shit, I don't think Mom and Dad will let me go after this. He heaved a sigh. Just got to hope. He hooks the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder, shuts the locker door, and turns to get out of there.

"Hey," one of the passing students whisper. "I wanna talk to you."

Lincoln halts his step. "Uh, sure." Here is some boy, short to the point where Lincoln has to bring his head down a little, jet-black hair falling over his forehead, coiling up at their tails. Thick, silver-wired glasses trace his eyes, light blinking off its lenses. His mouth turns up in a tight-lipped smile. Without delay, Lincoln immediately knows who it is.

The kid he saved from that alleyway in March.

He smiles. "I saw what you did back there, Lincoln. It was pretty cool. And, this is long overdue but . . . thank you. For helping me out last month. In the alleyway. I don't know what came out of it, or if you got away from them, but you really saved me millions. I should've been talking to you, but I never did."

What?

"I-it was really nothing," Lincoln says. "Sorry, I just never knew you . . . went to this school."

A dark shadow crosses the kid's face, and he rubs his arms together. "Oh, you don't recognize me? I'm Richie, from your elementary."

Lincoln hesitates. Richie? The kid who used to run around with Chandler and Trent? He never really spoke to him after elementary. They had their moments then, but ultimately Richie settled to hang with the 'cool kids,' and gravitated away from Lincoln. He seemed to disappear before the end of grade 6, and must've come back around late-grade 8...? Lincoln doesn't know. He has a great deal to learn. "Oh, wow. You look different."

Richie blinks. "Puberty? Change in style?"

"Yeah, that'll do it," Lincoln chuckles. "I mean, I sort of thought you . . . moved? Like, never saw you after grade 6. We had no classes together, never saw you in the halls, and I never really asked about you . . . thought you were more of one of the cool kids? You drifted away, I remember."

"Yeah, something happened. I left but I came back. I got betrayed a few times," Richie drones. "I kind of grew distant at my return, people didn't recognize me, didn't even remember my name. Started getting bullied for being short, and got some few nitpicks about my glasses too." He takes them off and studies them. "They don't look all that silly, right?"

Lincoln shakes his head. "Not at all, my friend Zach wears a much sillier-looking one."

"Oh, Zach, I remember him. He was the one who was all keen on the alien business, right?" Richie asks. "I still feel kind of bad for poking fun at that. Might've hurt his feelings."

"No need to feel guilty. That was years ago," Lincoln says hurriedly. "Anyways, I got to head out, that fight got me suspended and these old buffers probably don't want me around these halls."

Richie laughs. "Oh man, I can see that happening. Hey, good luck with stuff back home, and maybe you want to exchange numbers? Would be nice to get talking."

Not shrinking from this offer, Lincoln slips his phone out of pocket and they exchange numbers, saving them as contacts.

"Thanks Richie, it's good to have you back," Lincoln says.

Richie laughs again. "Yeah. See you around."

Turning around, Lincoln makes his way for the exit, hands curved around the shoulder straps, their hug slightly drawing them back. About twenty minutes of period 3 have passed, and running classes flicker out the sound of rambling teachers and chattering students. Some of their doors are open and have this output going even stronger. He steals multiple surreptitious glances while walking by, looking into the class and checking out the seated students as well as the teacher too. There is a lot to see in a second or two. There was not one person Lincoln knew in these classes (they all looked older too), and when one of them caught a glimpse of his passing face, they pulled their lips in as if to suppress an oncoming laugh. With his heart making a desperate lurch, Lincoln hurried away.

That fight . . . many must've seen it. He doesn't know if there are shots of the action going around, and if so, he is bound for a bumpy ride. With what he has done back there, he is bound to be either seen as an absolute badass, or an absolute freak. He thinks of the student in the hall who had staggered away from him, likely in fear, and a tear nearly glosses the soft jelly of his eyes.

Humiliation. His school life is over. Nothing will be the same after this. Everyone will see this fight; his family, his neighbors, his classmates . . . even the admission officer who was sure to view his future application to college.

Part of what he did back there, in the cafeteria, was and still is beyond his own understanding. Every move, every hit, was an impulse. Almost as if something had been . . . warning him.

Just like when he caught that insect; just like when had caught that paper airplane.

Finally at the exit, he puts a hand up against the glass door, taking in the sight from the glass. His stomach rolls around, threatening to burst and pull him into the technicolor yawn: Arnold, hands stuffed into his pockets, standing at the foot of the tall concrete steps to the parking lot, looking over parked cars. He gathers himself in a ropy swallow, now creeping his palm up against the push bar. The door opens with a mechanical squeal, and the breeze drives into his face with an eye-squinting puff of cool air.

How to approach . . . Lincoln doesn't know. He settles on walking up to Arnold and stops at his side. Maybe Arnold would clam up and leave, or maybe he would utter a few words, or maybe he would even reach out and try to choke him. Whatever happens, is what happens.

Ten seconds pass . . . nothing.

Thirty seconds pass . . . nothing.

A minute passes . . . nothing.

For a second, Lincoln considers leaving.

"They're right," Arnold says. "I could stand to be a bit more understanding."

Lincoln perks up. He never really expected to get some actual words out of him. "Well," Lincoln says, choosing his words carefully, "it's never too late to get started. You have a lot of life to look forward to."

Arnold looks down at his shoes. "You're a smart kid, got that tone in your voice. You think things through. But I'm not smart. I'm governed by anger, revenge, all these terrible things. All these movies I've been seeing, they got a bully in them. The bully always has something horrible going on at home. I guess I'm the same, someone who takes everything out on others. Before stepping into that room with the admins, I had already been thinking about that, but I took a good look at myself in the mirror, and saw who I really was. I wanted to rip you apart for something you were right in doing. I became the very person I didn't want to become. The very person that has set me on fire all these years."

"That's a strong way to look at it," Lincoln says. "I've always been scared of that person you say you have become, especially after that day in March. Getting rid of that person for a new you would be a breath of fresh air."

Arnold pauses for a moment, and swallows densely. "Why didn't you tell them the truth? If you told them everything . . . I'd probably be in jail."

Lincoln breathes out, his nostrils flaring. For the first time in months, he has the capacity to look Arnold in the eyes and not come apart at the seams. For the first time in months, he can bring himself to listen to Arnold and feel genuine empathy for the guy. He may not know much, but he knows enough to understand that Arnold isn't bad himself . . . he's just stuck in a bad place. Is Lincoln much different? No, he is not. The whole clusterfuck where Lincoln couldn't bring himself to make friends mostly happened because he had drifted away from the ones he valued closely.

For the first time ever, Lincoln and Arnold are having a real talk, sharing their thoughts and learning from each other.

He finally looks at Arnold, watching him as the wind rustles his voluminous brown hair, his fair skin a contrast to the pale sky at its rear, his mouth stuck in a troubled frown, his eyes more serene than he has ever seen them before. "Everyone deserves a second chance. I've already had plenty. Why shouldn't you have one more?"

Arnold opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates, deciding to keep quiet. He gives a half-nod and something similar to a smirk crosses his face. That's all he does; giving Lincoln Loud his very own 'thank-you' before heading down those steps to go home:

Two boys once troubled now on mutual paths of respect.

End of Chapter 4

Holy shit, almost 5 months without an update. This was LOOONNNNG overdue. Sorry for the wait guys and, have yourselves a HAPPY NEW YEAR! Here's to 2022, hope you enjoyed this new chapter. Let me know your thoughts I really want to see them! Good or bad, it always helps me improve.