The bell rang, a dull clang that echoed through Winslow High's corridors like a hammer striking warped steel. I shoved my notebook into my bag and stood up to head for my next class. Yesterday had been a blur. I was still running on the half-baked adrenaline of last night's fight—if I could even call it a fight. More like a frantic scramble to stay alive. But after defeating Lung, or helping to, and meeting Armsmaster for the first time, I'd woken this morning feeling like I was suspended in someone else's life. Today, in comparison, was just… school. Mundane. Suffocating. The contrast gnawed at me as I shuffled out of the computer lab, my sneakers scuffing the linoleum.
I'd spent most of Mrs. Knott's class hunched over a monitor, the hum of the ancient machine buzzing in my ears while I scrolled through Parahumans Online. The forums were alive with chatter about Lung's takedown—Armsmaster's takedown, technically. We'd agreed he'd take the credit, and he had, with all the stoic efficiency I'd expected from the man. "New Hero Debuts?" one thread speculated, but it was buried under praise for the Tinker's latest triumph. No mention of bugs. No mention of me. Fine. That was the plan. Still stung, though.
I had departed with one final search: me. Or rather, "Bug Girl," "Bug," "Insect Cape," anything that might prove I existed last night. My heart did an uncomfortable skip when I saw the thread. "Bug." That's all the post title said. One word, cryptic. The message beneath it was short: some thanks and a request to meet later from "Tt". There was no direct mention of the Undersiders, but it was obvious who posted it. My stomach had twisted—half thrill, half dread—and I'd logged out before I could overthink it.
Even now, trudging toward World Issues with Mr. Gladly, I still couldn't shake it. Being a cape, it felt unreal. I adjusted my glasses, pushing the thought down as I stepped into the classroom. The air smelled faintly of chalk and sweat, the usual Winslow bouquet. Madison was already there, perched at a desk near the front, her posse orbiting her like flies on rotting fruit. Sophia wasn't with them—track practice, probably—but the others filled the gap, giggling over something on a phone. I kept my head low, aiming for the seat by the door. Quick exit. Easy escape.
Except it wasn't. The chair was soaked, orange juice pooling on the cracked plastic, an empty bottle tipped over on the floor nearby. The memory hit me like a slap—locked in the bathroom, sticky grape juice running down my hair and clothes, their laughter ringing off the tiles. My jaw tightened. I willed my expression to stay blank and moved on, picking another seat a few rows back.
When Mr. Gladly entered, all cheer and gelled hair, he spent the first few minutes chattering about the weekend—nothing I could bring myself to care about—until he introduced the main activity. The chatter died to a murmur and he launched into another spiel—something about group work, sharing homework, a prize for the best effort. Vending machine treats, he said, like we were still in middle school. I tuned him out, watching the room split into clusters.
I didn't bother trying to team up with anyone popular. That was begging for rejection. Instead, I walked up to Mr. Gladly's desk, hoping to kill two birds with one stone: avoid attention and secure a replacement textbook. My previous one was unsalvageable, courtesy of Winslow's resident harpies.
Mr. Gladly looked up as I approached, eyebrows raised. "Taylor? What's up?"
"I need a new textbook," I said, keeping my voice flat.
He frowned, flipping through a stack of papers. "What happened to your old one?"
"I lost it," I lied.
His frown deepened. "You know that's thirty-five dollars for a new one, right? You don't have to pay now, but I'll need that by the end of the week."
"Right," I said, forcing a nod. "Thanks." I didn't have thirty-five bucks, but I'd figure it out. He handed me a new copy, and I turned back to the room.
The groups were mostly set now. Madison's clique was laughing too loud about something most likely inane. The other clusters were a mix of jocks, nerds, and the in-betweeners, all pretending to care about the assignment. Then there was the leftover table—Sparky and Greg, heads down on their desks, a pair of human paperweights. Weird. Sparky asleep wasn't news; the guy drifted through life in a daze, all vacant stares and mumbled words. Greg, though? Greg didn't sleep in class. He was a live wire—twitchy, loud, always spewing whatever popped into his head. Seeing him slumped there, face slack, sent a ripple of unease through me.
I hesitated, then slid into the empty chair at their table. Not like I had much of a choice. My new backpack—replacement for the one ruined earlier—thumped against the floor as I set it down. I pulled out my homework, a neat list of ways capes had shaped society: infrastructure, crime, economy, culture. I'd spent hours on it, cross-referencing PHO posts and old news articles. It was good. Solid. I folded my hands over it, ignoring the flickers of conversation around us, waiting for… something. Sparky snored softly. Greg didn't so much as twitch.
Minutes later, Julia—one of Madison's friends—walked in late. She made a show of batting her eyelashes at Mr. Gladly, who politely but firmly told her to join my group. Her face soured. She trudged over, her eyes sliding across me, Sparky, and Greg like she'd stepped in something foul. "Ew," she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. I clenched my jaw and refused to bite. She dragged a chair around so she could angle herself closer to Madison's group. They scooted their own chairs toward us, forming a cluster nearby that let them whisper between themselves. Great.
I ignored them, focusing on the assignment. But the boys were still asleep. Gladly would notice if we didn't at least pretend to work. I nudged Sparky's arm. "Hey. We're supposed to share homework." He stirred, blinked at me with bleary eyes, then dropped his head back down. I tried again, sharper this time. Nothing.
I sighed and turned to Greg, despite really not wanting to, jostling him awake."Hey. Wake up."
Disoriented, he lifted his head slowly, like it weighed a ton. Narrowed red-rimmed eyes flickered up to lock on mine, and for a second, I swore he didn't recognize me. Every line of his posture was tense, hostile. My heart gave a quick, traitorous stutter. Then, just like that, he forced it all into a neutral mask, blinking rapidly.
"Are you ok?" I asked following a brief pause. He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze flicked around the room, taking in the clusters of students, the hum of voices. His shoulders were no longer stiff, nor was his jaw tight. Still, it was odd seeing him like this; expressionless, no goofy grin, no flood of words—just silence. I frowned.
"We need to—" I began, but he just stared, silent. Finally, I placed my assignment in front of him, trying not to let my uncertainty show. He eyed the notes for a minute before taking it without a word, flipping through the pages. His gaze skimmed the lines, unreadable. I watched him, unease prickling up my spine.
That was when Julia made her presence known. "Greg," she said, tapping her nails on the desk for attention. "Hand that over. Let me see it." For a moment, I feared he would.
It was deeply unsettling when he didn't.
Greg's gaze flickered up at her, evaluating. The seconds dragged until Julia, flustered, repeated, "Did you hear me? Pass it over." Her voice got louder, drawing attention from the rest of Madison's group.
He exhaled, then said, in the most monotone voice I'd ever heard from him, "I heard you. Not in the mood for your antics today, Julia. Leave me alone."
The words hung there, heavy as lead. Julia blinked, dumbfounded, as if she couldn't believe Greg Veder—of all people—would talk to her in that manner.
"What did you just say?" she hissed, her confusion finally morphing into anger. Greg, however, didn't answer. Instead, he just flipped through the rest of my assignment, closed it, and handed it back to me.
"It's alright," he muttered, leaning back in his seat. Then he closed his eyes.
And that was that. Julia blinked, face reddening as Madison whispered something and the rest of the group snickered. My heart was hammering with confusion, and I clutched my notes tight to my chest, feeling suddenly exposed. Julia glared at him like he'd just spat in her face, and I sat there, caught between shock and something I couldn't name, wondering who the hell this Greg was—and what had happened to the one I knew.