A/N: Here's chapter four. It ended up being a little longer than I expected. My OC and Warren have officially (and briefly) been introduced now, so from here on out they'll have a lot more interaction. I wanted to see Warren's perspective on getting to know her first, however, which is why I kept their conversation in this chapter brief. Next chapter, he'll have a lot to say about it. :)

Thank you all for your reviews! If you ever have any questions/comments/observations/etc don't hesitate to tell me. Happy reading!

Chapter 4: Of Vodka and Vegetarians

September 20, 2006
Sera

Despite what movies such as Cocktail and Coyote Ugly might insinuate, working at a bar is not a non-stop whirlwind of parties and pretty faces. There's no spontaneous dancing on the barroom counter, no jukebox sing-a-longs, no witty repartee between the bartenders and patrons.

Sprawling fistfights amongst out-of-shape drunks, however, are a dime a dozen. I shook my head, watching my boss, Andrew, act as mediator between two young men who'd just gotten into a heated argument over whether Farrah Fawcett or Cameron Diaz made the hotter Charlie's Angel. It might have sounded trivial – well, it was – but it's amazing the issues that are of utter importance when you're under the influence of 160 proof rum.

Andrew was a big, stocky guy with broad shoulders, a voice that resembled a pitchfork over gravel, and hands large enough to palm a basketball. He'd worked as a bouncer before saving up enough to buy his own establishment, so he was a professional disperser of clashes and never had much of a problem stopping a fight. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at the proceedings. The two guys were sitting on opposite sides of the table, sullen looks on their faces as Andrew lectured. Aaaah, good. He'd subdued them for the time being, so it appeared everything was under control once again.

I walked around the corner of the counter to wash my hands. Truthfully, working at McCarthy's wasn't a bad job, drunken idiots aside. When I'd first moved to New York, desperate to find a means of income, Andrew Tonning had been my savior. He'd originally hired me on as a waitress, just someone to work the floor and keep the customers – mostly men – supplied with beer and hot wings. But since I'd proven myself to be a reliable, hard worker – something that was apparently rare in this day and age – he'd taken me under his wing and taught me a little about bartending. It was a more stressful job, but it meant bigger tips in fewer hours. Plus, I'd discovered, the customers were much nicer to me, eager to stay on my good side so that I'd keep the drinks coming at a timely pace.

Once I'd cleaned up, I yawned, leaning against the wall and surveying the room. The place was a dump, that much was for sure – but in a fun sort of way. It was what any self-respecting real bar should look like. The few tables in the room consisted of upturned barrels with heavy slats of wood on top, there was a long, thin counter that lined the opposite wall, some stools scattered here and there, and of course, the main bar where drinks were made. There was one old TV up in the corner that showed snow just as often as actual programming, and the lighting inside was almost non-existent. It wasn't a place where people came to have dinner, or watch the Yankees game, or catch up on old times with friends; it was a place created solely for drinking.

"Did you get those two fanboys calmed down?" I asked when Andrew returned to the counter. He responded with a set of rolled eyes.

"Yeah, for now," he said in his usual gruff way. "Though if they start up again I'm gonna have to kick their asses out. I ain't got time for this shit." He paused, giving me an apologetic look. Andrew, despite his daunting, masculine appearance, possessed a very charming set of puppy-dog brown eyes. "'Scuse my French, Sera."

I chuckled, dismissing him with a wave. "I work in a bar, Drew, and not a very pretty one, at that. I'm used to it."

"You sayin' my bar's ugly?" he asked, grinning. "What, you think we ought to revamp this place? Get some real furniture, give it a paint job, nail up some cheesy road signs and shit on the walls?"

I laughed loudly. "No, no… it has a certain ambience to it. It's perfect. The Irish would be proud."

He snorted. "As they should be." He cast a quick glance around the room. "Pretty slow tonight."

I nodded absentmindedly. Wednesdays were always slow. During the weekends, the small bar was filled to capacity, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women eager to temporarily forget about their jobs or spouses or what have you. Mondays were filled with white-collar workers bemoaning the beginning of their 9-to-5 work week, Tuesday nights we offered two-for-one draft Budweisers, and Thursdays the college students poured in, ready to cram in one frantic night of partying before heading home for the weekend.

But Wednesdays? Empty. Which meant a slow night, no tips, and a lot of boredom.

"Yeah," I said, dragging the word out on a sigh. I heard the door clatter closed, and turned my attention to the newest customer to enter. He walked up to place an order, and I instantly recognized him. Medium height, thick build, dark complexion, and being one of the hairiest guys I'd ever laid eyes on, he was kind of unforgettable. He always ordered a pair of Molson Black Ices to start his tab, smoked a few cigars, and sat off to the side by himself, brooding silently. He'd never given me any trouble, though, so I wasn't put off by his behavior. So long as the guys kept to themselves, I didn't ask questions.

"Hey there," I said cheerfully. I didn't know his name, only his preferences. "Black Ices, right?"

The right corner of his mouth quirked up in just the tiniest hint of a smile, almost eerily akin to watching a wolf bare its teeth. "You got it."

He collapsed in a stool on the end of the counter, apprising the rest of the bar with one long glance. I scurried to the clear glass refrigerators back against the wall, pulling out two of the dark brown bottles and popping off the caps. I gave him a smile as I slid the two beers onto the counter in front of him. "Need anything else?"

"Not at the moment." He acknowledged me with a short nod before grabbing the first bottle and taking a long swig. Ugh – I didn't know what he found so appealing about Black Ice, I'd tried it before and had promptly decided it tasted like cat piss. But then, I figured the higher alcohol content probably had something to do with it. Most men who came in here would have been willing to drink actual cat piss if there was a promise of it getting them smashingly drunk.

I strolled back over to stand by Andrew, straining to see the wall clock in the dim light. Almost nine. My shift ended at midnight, so I had a ways to go. I folded my arms, suppressing a yawn. The two of us stood silently side-by-side for several minutes before Andrew spoke again.

"I think I'm gonna run over to Jalapeno's for something to eat," he said. "I'm starving. You think you can handle this place for a few minutes while I'm gone?"

I surveyed the near-empty room, smirking. "Yeah. I think so."

"I figured." He started towards the backroom, then stopped, giving me a questioning look. "You want anything?"

Actually, a couple of messy chicken burritos sounded really good. "Sure," I said. "Get me the burrito trio. With chicken, not steak." I started to follow him. "Hey, I'll get you some money, let me get my purse—"

"Nah, I got it, Sera, don't worry about it." He disappeared through the door, his voice carrying through. "I'll be back in a few."

"Okay," I called back. Walking back to the counter, I paused, drumming my fingers on the counter. Three hours to kill…

I guess I could do a little cleaning… clean the fingerprints off the windows, maybe dust the shelves in the back…

I wrinkled my nose. The backroom was chaos piled on top of a train wreck, all covered with a fine layer of dust. Andrew kept claiming that he would get it cleaned up one of these days, but I had my doubts. But regardless, I dismissed that option on the grounds that I would have to leave the front unattended to work on it. The windows, however, were in plain view of the register, so I opted for that. Grabbing a bottle of Windex and some paper towels, I headed up front.

The door clattered shut again, and I gave a preoccupied hello to the man who strolled inside. Cleaning windows was one of those thankless, menial little tasks that you knew you'd be doing again in a half-hour after some guy pressed his face or other part of his anatomy up against the glass. Ah, well. At least it was a good way to burn fifteen minutes.

The man had gone to the counter, so I quickly finished up, wiped off my hands, and trotted back to take his order. The counter was empty, the Black Ice guy was nowhere to be seen. I wasn't perturbed – he appeared and disappeared regularly during his visits here, but he always paid his tab, so it wasn't a problem.

"Hey, can I help you?" I asked the newcomer, sliding around the corner and slapping my hands down on the tabletop. He was very plain; thin brown hair peeking out under a dark cap, flushed skin, tiny, dark eyes. He didn't respond immediately, instead giving me a hard, fixed look. I furrowed my brow in confusion.

"Well, we have a huge selection of beer, both imported and domestic…" I continued. "Thirty-seven different kinds on tap, if that's your preference…" I trailed into silence. There was something off about this guy.

I backed away, an uneasy feeling deep in my gut. "Well, when you decide, just give me a shout," I said. I suddenly wished Andrew would get back soon, and not just because I was craving those burritos. I turned and started to walk down to the far end of the counter, intending to throw away the empty Black Ice bottles that had been left behind.

"Wait." The word came out sharp, clipped. "Hey, don't turn your back on me. Get back here."

I halted, slowly spinning to face the man. "Can I help you?"

"Come here," he said, his voice deadly quiet. I moved towards him with tentative baby steps, my blood rushing like ice through my veins. When I was standing directly in front of him, he nodded. "We're going to make this quick, and we're gonna make it simple. Give me everything in the register."

I blinked. "What?"

"Give me everything in the register," he repeated evenly. Maybe it was because I'd never been trained what to do in this sort of situation, much less actually face it, but my brain blanked out and I simply froze. What? Was I being robbed!

"My manager's in the back," I suddenly lied. "He'll see you on the security camera."

He stared me down, unblinking. "Your manager's down the street, waiting in line for Mexican food," he said, his words beginning to take on an angrier, choppier cadence. "I watched him go myself." I felt my eyes widen.

He's been staking us out… waiting for the right moment to come in here…

After being caught in my lie, I just stood there awkwardly, feeling a deep, hot flush of dread spread to my neck and further up. When it became evident that I wasn't going to move, he slowly pulled his right hand from his pocket – revealing a small, but nevertheless terrifying pistol. My mouth fell open; I sucked in my breath sharply.

"Here's how it is. If you scream, I'll shoot you," he said, his voice still that low, disquieting calm. He kept the pistol close to his side, so it wouldn't be seen by anyone else. "So don't make a scene. Don't even look at anyone else but me, you got it? Just open the register and hand me everything inside and you'll be okay."

"Okay," I whispered. I struggled not to cast a furtive glance around the room, silently begging someone to stand up and take notice. But the guys in the far front – the Charlie's Angels fans and the rest of their crew – were both deep in rowdy conversation, and the Black Ice guy who'd been at the end of the bar was still nowhere in sight.

I opened the register slowly, trying to be as discreet as humanly possible. "Hurry the fuck up," he hissed. "And don't forget your apron. I see what you've got in there." I swallowed, fighting back tears and forcing myself not to look at the gun. My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I yanked the night's tips from my apron and collected the stacks of bills from the drawer, pressing them all together and setting the piles on the opposite side of the register where no one but us could see. It wasn't nearly as much as we could make on a truly busy night, but there was easily five-hundred or so there. He quickly snatched up the little piles, stuffing them inside his coat. I gently closed the register drawer and stepped back, waiting for him to make the next move.

I thought he would leave. He had the money and he'd performed the entire operation without being caught. In theory, what more could you want? I nervously grabbed on to the hem of my apron, my fists clenched.

Suddenly his expression changed, one corner of his lip curling into an infuriating smirk. I knew by that look of complete arrogance that he wasn't done just yet.

"The Armadale," he said then, beckoning behind me with his head. He leaned against the counter, looking casual and relaxed, like he was requesting a special kind of mixed drink. "And the Jewel of Russia."

"Wha—what?" I glanced behind me, confused. Vodka?

He glared, clearly displeased with my bewilderment. "Give me those bottles."

You're stealing Vodka now! Are you serious? You can't just go buy some with the money you've just stolen?

Instead of voicing my disbelief, I just nodded, numb. I turned and walked to the back wall, inwardly screaming at my hands to stop trembling. Armadale and Jewel of Russia were expensive brands, literally "top-shelf". I had to strain and carefully reach to retrieve them, taking it extra-slow and praying to God that someone, anyone, would walk in and put an end to the proceedings. I wondered how he planned on leaving the bar unnoticed if he was carrying several large 40-ounce bottles of high-end vodka under his arms. It wasn't exactly a run-of-the-mill purchase, and surely someone would notice by the time he got out on the street…

"Hurry up," he said, his voice seething with rage. His agitation was escalating with each precious second. "I know what you're doing, you bitch. I'll fucking blow your head off if you don't quit wasting time."

Oh God…

I held the bottles tight by my side and turned around. "Okay," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you—"

SNIKT!

I heard the noise, but my thoughts didn't immediately process what had happened. My first reaction was to scream and drop the vodka bottles, all four of the ones I'd lifted from the shelf. They hit the wood floor with terrific crash, startling both the man currently robbing me and the group of drunk guys way up front. It did not, however, startle the guy who'd previously been at the end of the bar; Black Ice man had returned. And he was presently cozied next to the criminal and holding what appeared to be a trifecta of razor-sharp knives in his face. Long knives, far more deadly-looking than any kind I'd ever seen.

"Not so fast, bub," Black Ice growled. No one moved, no one spoke – everyone was staring at the enormous blades being held inches from the man's throat. I was only barely conscious of the fact that the robber still had his gun pointed at me.

The air felt still, heavy, and I was absolutely, positively certain I was going to faint.

I can't believe this is happening…

The boys up front were also frozen, like statues with their eyes saucer-wide, looking like they wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the building without ever glancing back. Then, I looked – really looked – at Black Ice's hands. I blinked once, my mind slowly grappling with the visual in front of me.

Those aren't knives, they're embedded in his skin… like… like claws…

And then, it clicked.

Oh, sweet Jehovah, he has metal claws coming out of his hands…

"You—you're," I stuttered. I didn't know what was more terrifying – the man with the Colt .45, or the man with the strange, claw-like appendages. "You're a—"

I stopped when I heard a door in the back open, and footsteps followed, disrupting the silence of the bar. Still, no one moved. And then Andrew walked up front, dropping the cartons of food in the floor in his shock the same way I'd dropped the bottles. I realized then that he wasn't seeing the whole picture. He'd just walked in on what appeared to be a man (no, a mutant), threatening another man in his bar…

"What—what the hell is going on here?" he shouted. I cringed, just waiting for the robber to be startled by something else and accidentally pull the trigger. "Put the knives down!"

So Andrew hadn't really looked yet, either. "I—I—I don't think he can…" I stumbled over my speech; words felt huge and thick in my mouth. But he didn't hear. None of them did.

"I can't," Black Ice seethed. He looked angry, his hair disheveled, pointy, and standing on end.

"Put them down, son. Put them down or I'm calling the police."

Black Ice glowered. "Fine."

SNIKT!

The claws disappeared, instantaneously retracting up into his arms, and I felt my stomach lurch. And then, I did precisely what I'd predicted I would do earlier.

I passed out.

xxxxx

"You were threatened with a gun, robbed, almost sliced to pieces, and then you passed out! Sera! Oh my God!" Randi's voice had reached a fever pitch, and I was beginning to regret telling her my near-death experience in the first place. She had a tendency to get details a little messed up, and I could only imagine what the story would become by the time she told Dylan. She was like the personification of the children's game Operator.

I sighed. "Not quite, I wasn't almost 'sliced to pieces', he wasn't even trying to—"

She interrupted, squawking through the phone at me. "I don't know why you work at that shithole, anyway! I know there's somewhere nicer and at least safer that you could go…"

I rubbed my temples. I'd gotten home very late last night – nearly three in the morning. After I'd passed out, apparently, the police had been called, the criminal detained, and because of Andrew's staunch anti-mutant policy, the clawed man had been kicked out of the bar before the cops even arrived. I'd been awakened with smelling salts by an officer who'd arrived first, and then spent several hours at the station giving my side of the story. I wasn't sure how much help I was, really. All in all, the previous evening was a blur, with only a few distinct visuals sticking to my memory. Guns. Terror. Vodka. Dizziness.

And claws. Sweet Jehovah, claws.

"…and I'll see if maybe they'd be willing to give you a job at Le Deauville, I mean, you'd probably get less pay at first, but—"

I closed my eyes. I'd been understandably too exhausted to call anyone and relay my tale when I'd gotten home last night. So this morning on the way to campus I'd called the Cox twins, intending to speak to Dylan first, as he was the level-headed of the two. But he'd already gone to work, and Randi had answered. I'd reluctantly told her, so my entire ride to school had been punctuated by her gasps and shrieks of disbelief.

But I had class in ten minutes, and now was no time to get into any new debate over my current place of employment. That could last another half-day or more. "The hours are good, the pay is good, and I like my boss," I said, cutting her off. "It was an isolated incident. Who says Le Deauville isn't going to get held up one of these days? You never know." I paused, yanking open the door to Ginger Hall. "I'm keeping the job."

"SERA! But—"

"I have to go. Class. I'll call you two later, okay?" I took the stairs two at a time, rushing to the classroom. She started to sputter, and I managed a smile. "Bye, Randi."

"Don't you hang up on—"

I folded the phone shut, switched it to silent, and slid it into the front pocket of my backpack. The door to the classroom was closed, and I could hear that Dr. Marcus was already well into his lecture. I cringed – I was never late for class, and found it annoying when students waltzed in ten minutes tardy and interrupted the lecture. But truthfully, I thought it amazing that I'd made it to class, period. I had skipped Accounting this morning, because… well, because frankly, after nearly being killed last night and being interviewed by the police until the early hours of the morning, I just couldn't bring myself to get out of bed that early. My conscientious side had taken over after that, however, and wouldn't let me skip two classes in the same day. So I'd managed to drag myself to school for Ethics, a choice that my sluggish mind was already regretting.

I opened the door quietly and slipped inside. Dr. Marcus gave me a quick once-over as I scurried to my seat, but he didn't say anything. Jonathan's eyes lit up as I walked past him, and he leaned back as soon as I sat down.

"Hey, where were you this morning?" he whispered. "We missed you in Accounting…"

"Long story," I murmured, yanking out a notebook and pen. "I'll tell you later."

xxxxx

I'd had very little experience with mutants in my lifetime. In West Virginia, they'd been barely more than a whisper, gossip, something that only happened in other parts of the world; bigger cities and states. Sure, there had been rumors now and then about members of our community being mutants, much in the same way that people gossiped about alleged (and generally untrue) affairs and other scandals. That sort of hearsay is inevitable in a small town, but about 99 of the time it was the result of a misunderstanding or outright lying on someone's part.

For instance, I'd always heard that my high-school geography teacher, Mr. Kendall, was pyrokinetic – meaning he could start fires with his mind. However, this rumor was propagated by a scruffy kid in class who claimed to have seen Mr. Kendall light up his cigarette without the use of a match or lighter… just by staring at it. We probably would've given a little more weight to his allegation if he hadn't been such a burn-out – he'd also claimed that he heard the voices of butterflies, which coincidentally occurred after he'd taken a particularly bad hit of acid one weekend while partying a little too hard.

But as far as actually being face-to-face with a real, confirmed mutant? No. I'd been sheltered in that regard, maybe. We'd studied mutations in my science classes, just like every other kid in the country, but that was pretty much where my factual knowledge ended. All other information I'd garnered through the news and word of mouth, and that information wasn't pretty: mutants were unpredictable. Unstable. Dangerous. They were a threat to society.

Right?

I still wasn't sure. Last night I'd learned that, yes, they could be unpredictable, unstable, and dangerous. Being able to unleash a set of knives from your hands was just… just unnatural and treacherous in so many ways. But, then again, he hadn't threatened me, he'd been trying to help… albeit in a very petrifying manner. I'd told the police as much, emphasizing that although Black Ice had startled me (understatement of the year), he had only been trying to stop a robbery in progress. The cops had sort of sneered at that – I wasn't sure they actually believed me – but they'd taken the notes down regardless.

"So tell me…" My personal reflections were interrupted by Jonathan. Class had just ended; the other students were filtering through the door. And I'd been sitting at my desk, completely lost in thought and unaware that the lecture was even over. "...what happened? You look like hell, Sera."

I stood up, gathering my bag and purse. "It's—" I shook my head, chuckling at the absurdity of it all. I started walking towards the door, he followed. "You got about thirty minutes? Because it's a doozy." I strolled out in the hall, rummaging to find my phone. Randi had probably called a dozen times since I'd hung up on her. She'd be in a fine mood later, I was sure.

"Tell you what," Jonathan said. "Have you ever been to Clark's Diner over on Fifth?"

"I haven't," I said. "Why?"

"Because if you're in the mood for some good, greasy deep-fried food, we could go there for lunch," he said, gently taking hold of my arm and pulling me back. "Since I don't have to be at work until two. But first, you need to go back and sign Marcus's worksheet. He wanted everyone to sign up their groups because he's going to assign the debate topics to each one. He passed it out at the beginning of class, but since you were late…" He gave me a wink to let me know he was just messing around. "I put your name down with mine, but you need to initial it."

"Ah, okay," I said. Coming to class was a good idea, I decided. I was starting to feel a little better. "Sounds good."

We went back to the classroom to catch Dr. Marcus before he left. However, upon walking in, we were treated to the sight of our professor arguing with none other than Warren Worthington. We both halted in the doorway, remaining silent.

"…and this is a group project, Warren, so you're going to have to pick someone to work with…"

"I don't like group projects," Warren said angrily. He was standing ramrod-straight, fists clenched by his sides. He was always so uptight, that kid. Gave short, clipped answers in class, never spoke to anyone, always sulking. "I always end up doing all the work myself and then others take the credit. I'd rather just do it alone."

"That's not the point," Dr. Marcus replied, sounding tired. "The point of group projects is not to alleviate your workload; it's to learn how to work with other people. Doing the project alone completely defeats that purpose."

I glanced over to Jonathan. The two of them were so intently arguing that they hadn't noticed we were standing there. I quickly stepped back out in the hall out of sight, pulling Jonathan with me. I didn't want either of them to look up and see us gawking. "Should we leave or wait?" I whispered. Jonathan shrugged.

Despite being out of sight, we could still hear perfectly well. "Why is it such a big deal?" Warren demanded, his tone rising. "The work will get done. I do tons of group work in other classes, and I'm tired of it. I'd just like to do something myself, for once."

Jonathan nodded slowly as he met my eyes, fascinated by Warren's apparent diva fit. "Damn," he muttered. "What an attitude."

"Warren, I would have thought that you of all people would understand the importance of being able to work with others… even people you don't like. Do you think your father enjoys it all of the time?" Dr. Marcus was losing his patience. Not that I could blame him. I generally didn't like group work, either, but I sucked it up and did what I was told. And in the business world, obviously working with others was unavoidable. "If you'd approach this with an open mind, you might be surprised."

I gnawed at my lip. I didn't like eavesdropping, and I didn't want to wait until they were done, since I had no idea how long that would take. "Maybe I should just go to his office later," I whispered to Jonathan. "I'll sign it then."

He shook his head. "Nah. Come on, let's just go in and ask him for the sheet real quick right now."

"We can't just interrupt them!" I protested.

"Why not? I'm sure neither of them is enjoying this argument. Besides, I'm hungry and I don't want to wait… and I don't want you to go out of your way later." He tugged on my arm again. "Just follow me."

He pulled me into the classroom. "Dr. Marcus?" he called out. Their argument immediately ceased, and I felt my face burn a little as the professor and Warren both stared at us. "Sorry, but Sera here needs to sign the sheet, we almost forgot."

"Oh. Oh, of course. Hang on." Dr. Marcus pulled a clipboard from his bag and handed it to me. I quickly scanned down the list – there were eleven pairs of names scribbled across the paper, so I quickly found where Jonathan had written both our names and initialed it. It seemed sort of silly to clarify that you agreed to be in someone's group, but apparently in the past, the professor had students try to sign other people into their group without discussing it beforehand. Or, as we'd seen here with Warren, not sign at all in an attempt to worm their way out of working in a group, period.

I handed the clipboard back to him. "Okay, thanks. And sorry for being late today – it was an unavoidable… incident," I said. "Won't happen again." I hope, I added silently.

"Not a problem, Sera," Dr. Marcus said. He gave me an amused smile. "I know you're not a truant."

With that task thankfully done, Jonathan and I said goodbye, eager to leave the professor and Warren to their previous 'discussion'. We had made it to the door when we were both stopped.

"Sera. Jonathan. Stay just a minute, I'd like to ask you something."

Jonathan and I half-turned and met eyes, confused. I turned. "Yes?"

Dr. Marcus had a pensive look on his face, as if he'd just thought of something that had never occurred to him before. I didn't like that look; it meant he was up to something. "There's an uneven number of people in class, so one group will have to have an extra person," he said. I felt my eyes widen – I instantly knew what was coming next. "And Warren here needs a group, so…"

Jonathan blanched. "I don't know, I think—"

Warren interrupted him, looking equally as upset. "I told you, I don't want—"

"Warren," Dr. Marcus said, forcefully silencing us all. "You're doing this project under the same rules as everyone else. You said you were worried that you'd end up doing all the work – well, these two are the best students in class. Very reliable and diligent; you'll have nothing to worry about." He looked at Jonathan. "And for you two, it would mean a little more manpower for the research, and less speaking you'll have to do in the debate, because you can split it into three parts."

No one spoke.

The professor sighed, turning his gaze to me. His eyes had an earnest, begging sort of quality to them, an unspoken suggestion for me to just ask Warren if he'd like to be in our group and get it over with. He wanted this problem solved, and we'd conveniently walked in as his solution.

I doggedly remained silent.

He sighed. "So, what do you say you let Warren join your group here?" he finally asked when it became obvious I wasn't going to breach the question myself.

I looked to Jonathan, and then to the sullen face of Warren, then back to Jonathan. Why was I always such a pushover when it came to these sorts of things?

"Well," I hedged. "Sure, I guess… Jonathan? Um, what do you say?" Jonathan frowned, but gave a grunt of agreement. I could only imagine the tongue-lashing he was giving me in his mind.

"Perfect." Dr. Marcus looked totally relieved. "Warren, add your name to this sheet. I'll have each debate topic assigned to the groups by next week."

"Okay," I said softly. Great. I felt like I'd been backed into a corner; I hadn't really wanted Warren in our group. But Dr. Marcus had used a move that I knew all too well – playing to a student's sense of vanity in order to get them to consent. 'Best students in the class', right. I'd done it plenty of times myself, so I supposed it was just a little bad karma making its way back. All three of us watched silently as the professor took the clipboard back from Warren, stuffed it in his bag, and threw the strap over his shoulder with amazing speed. He wanted to get out of there before any of us changed our minds.

"I'll see the three of you next week," he said breezily. "Thanks again." With a quick wave over his shoulder, he strolled out of the room, leaving only me, Jonathan, and Warren. Or, to put it more accurately, me and two very disgruntled young men.

I forced a smile on my face. Hmmm. We were going to be seeing a lot of him now, so I figured I might as well try to be polite. "Well, Warren," I said, giving a sidelong glance to my now-irate lunch date. "We haven't really 'met', I guess, so I'm Sera Slone, and this is Jonathan Brady."

"I know who you are." His arms were folded tightly across his chest. He wasn't very tall, I noticed, but his stiff stature made him seem much more imposing than height alone allowed.

"Oh… okay, good, I guess…" God, couldn't he just lighten up for a minute? A second? I paused, thinking of something else to say; to try and engage him in conversation. He wasn't the only stubborn person in the room; I'd find a way to get through to him somehow.

Well, we were on our way to eat lunch…

Oh, Jonathan, don't hate me for this...

"So," I said gently. "We're going to have some lunch at Clark's now, if you want to come with us, you know, kind of get to know each other a little better…" Jonathan coughed loudly, and I gave him a sharp look. "Since we're going to be working together now, and all…"

He gave me a flat look. He had very blue eyes, I noticed. Light, pale, icy. "I'm vegetarian."

"Oh…" I shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't know… well, where do you like to go? I'm open to anything…"

"I have to be somewhere," he said shortly. "So thanks but no thanks." He was clearly done with conversation. With that, he suddenly hoisted his backpack up and walked out, leaving the two of us jilted by his insolence.

Jonathan groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. "Fuck."

I'd dealt with students who'd had royal attitudes before, but this certainly had to take the cake. I was already regretting caving in to Dr. Marcus's pleading eyes. Would having to do a little less work on this project really be worth all the trouble Warren was likely going to put us through?

I doubted it. I sincerely doubted it.

Nevertheless, I shrugged and gave Jonathan a sardonic smile. "Wow, I didn't think my week could get any worse," I said dryly. "This is going to be a fun three months."

"You said it." He shook his head, snorting incredulously. "Hell. C'mon, let's go to Clark's and eat big, fat greasy burgers like the carnivores we are." He raised an eyebrow at me. "And you can tell me why you were late in the first place, which led to us waiting around after class, which led to us having Richie Rich added to our roster."

I couldn't help but laugh at his wry, acerbic humor. At least I could rely on him to act like a normal human being. "That sounds great, actually," I replied. With that, we strolled out of Ginger Hall together, heading for Clark's.