Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day that Drephl and his twin brother Frihl Shims were born was completely normal.

The sun shone, it was a bit cloudy, people went to work, and came home after a long day.

The fact that it was also the last day Alcor answered summons for decades is a total coincidence, of course.

Frihl was a loud, boisterous boy; the type to take charge when playing and gather his own little gang of 5 year olds to take exploring in the forest, someone who sometimes played a little too rough and drove their father mad with his general energy and excitability.

His twin brother Drephl, in contrast, was quiet. Shy, withdrawn, even antisocial according to some. He’d rather watch his mother’s Death Ball games on the television than climb trees; given the choice between biking and staying inside reading, he’d always pick the latter.

Of course, this did not mean he never went outside; often enough, Frihl dragged him out on an adventure, usually accompanied by his little troop.

Drephl, however, did not have any friends, as long as you didn’t count his twin. This was not for lack of trying, for every time he did go outside, he did his best to participate, to follow what the others were doing, to play with them according to their rules and help them with anything he could.

But it didn’t make up for his awkwardness, for the gross way he picked at and bit his skin, for never knowing what to say and always doing something wrong, something weird, something to make the others rather pick someone else to play with.

Something that meant the only one happy to see him was his brother.

Their father was a writer, an illustrator for the books the teachers at the Park read them during story time.

Grand stories of princesses and towers and dragons, of fairies and elves and a thousand other magical things recounted to them while they went to sleep.

Stories of love, stories of crushes and marriage and happiness forever.

Of holding hands with your one true love.

Frihl loved them. Obsessed with one day finding his own prince charming like the people in the stories, with hearing their dad recount the story of how he met their mother, squealing and blushing and fantasizing about it all.

Drephl wanted to hear other stories, because those ones were boring and Frihl was annoying about them and dad just told him he’d get it later.

He didn’t want to get it. He didn’t want to wait until he was older.

He wished he’d stay a kid forever if it meant none of that would happen to him.

During the summer, just a few days before their 6th birthday, their mom came home for a visit. She dropped her bags at the front door and called for them, the board game abandoned as the twins rushed to her in screaming excitement, little arms wrapping around her waist while she patted their heads.

They would talk about her job, about the games she’d won and the places she’d been, the drama in the changing rooms and the secrets hidden from the media.

Dad would hum in the kitchen while cooking dinner as Frihl regaled her with the stories of his adventures, Drephl content to sit on her lap and rest his ear where her heart beat, present and real and alive, not just a face on the television.

And when the food was made and they gathered at the table, all four chairs finally occupied by people, Drephl picked up his knife and fork to eat-

Stab her in the eye

-only to drop them back on the table, hurrying to hide his hands underneath and grip at his pants in blind panic.

Images of the fork in her eye flashed in his mind, the squishy thing broken apart and blood spurting out where the prongs went in,

“Dreph? Dreph, are you fine?” dad asked him, putting his conversation on hold to focus on Drephl,

the screams of her pain echoing in his mind, the tears that would fall even as her pupil stopped working and

just like Frihl and mom. Mom, who looked at him (dead eyed, eyes he’d stab, bleeding eyes, stop, look away, don’t look at me, stop it) uncertainly, furrowed eyebrows and scrunched nose, staring at him like he was a rabid animal about to go crazy,

the eye is shredded into little pieces by the fork, pushed deeper and deeper-

Drephl ran away, chair skidding and heart beating.

Frihl and Drephl went to the woods with mom while dad got the house decorated for their birthday party, walking along a well-trodded path along the Bubble’s border.

(A party where the only one celebrated would be Frihl. A party where only his friends would be there, a party where Drephl sat in the corner looking at his picture book, a party where even dad would forget to include him.)

(At least there was candy. There was always candy. The candy was the real present, Drephl thought.)

Drephl didn’t like the forest, though. Mosquitoes bit him and the other kids looked at him with disgust when he forgot to focus on spitting the skin out instead of eating it. He wished they’d gone somewhere else.

But he was with mom, so it was fine. Mom was home, and not on the television, and she looked at him and smiled, so it was fine.

(She smiled at him the special way she only did for him and Frihl, the way she never did on TV. She smiled with a little quirk of her lips, her eyes opened full and with so much love it drowned out the light in them.)

(She didn’t smile at dad. Not like the stories dad told of how they met, of their dates and proposal, would suggest she should.)

After mom left, taken away by the sprawling subways beneath their feet, they discovered she had failed to log off or child-lock her account.

And so, while dad was out shopping, the twins took their chance and browsed the adults section.

Frihl told Drephl that he wouldn’t dare watch any of them. Drephl said that Frihl was such a baby he’d get scared and wet himself. Frihl pushed Drephl on the shoulder and called him a coward, and so, a horror movie was quickly picked at random.

Drephl ended up being the winner, as Frihl hid alternatingly under the blankets or in Drephl’s shoulder for just about the entire movie.

Frihl would never forget the scene he’d risked a glance at, a living puppet drawing the eye out of a girl’s socket, stretching it out and out before snapping it off with a pair of scissors, the screaming echoing in his nightmares for months afterward.

He especially wouldn’t forget the ridicule Drephl gave him, being called a wuss and a baby for many years afterward, because Drephl didn’t have any issues with the gore, didn’t even think it was that intense in comparison to the things he and Ghali would watch.

(But that’s getting too far ahead, isn’t it?)

A year later, playing hide and seek with dad, Drephl discovered one of mom’s books in the closet of their room.

They had only just started learning how to read, so most of its contents flew over his head with the big complicated words filling its pages, but the little he did understand, he was fascinated by.

Game forgotten, he immersed himself in the pages of the journal, in the pictures of a place called “Gravity Falls”.

His dad happily read the journal to him, sounding out the words he didn’t know and explaining the history of it all.

The transcendence, when magic came to the world; starting in this little town.

It was the personal journal of a Gravity Falls resident, translated to modern language. It was part of mom’s research into the culture and place where her sport was created, its history tightly woven with the apocalypse that had unfolded there.

If ever Drephl succumbed to the “love” his family spoke of, it would be to that time, to that story; when the world was full of mystery and the wizards and gnomes he’d grown up with were a new discovery to its residents.

Frihl joined them, as they read through it.

But while Drephl poured over and read about the magic and the creatures brought to the light,

Frihl would rather hear about what life was like before it all.

Just months before they would all leave for school, when their lessons at the Park took up more time in the day than playing did, Sahmil and him were paired up for an art project.

It was going well; they split up the work, and silently did their parts. Drephl glued and Sahmil cut.

And then,

“Eww!”

Drephl flinched, his hand flying out of his mouth, swallowing the piece of skin on his tongue as quickly as he could.

“That’s so gross!”

People were looking at them now. This wasn’t new,

(Frihl’s friends avoided touching his hands, dad scolded him, Frihl was the only one who didn’t care,)

but his skin felt too tight and he wanted it out and he wanted them to stop looking at him like they could see through him,

“Why would you do that? That’s so weird!”

stop it, stop it, he can’t, it’s not his choice, stop it, he’s not a freak, he’s not weird, stop looking at him stop talking,

She was too close, sitting right next to him, looking at him like he was a disgusting animal, and he just needed space,

And when he reached towards her, to push her away, to close her eyes, to push himself away, she yelped and flinched back and he,

saw her hands coming at him, in panic and flailing and trying to create space, and grabbed on the closest one and bit down.

Chapter Text

The Park, a central area of the Bubbles meant for families. A place for the children under 10 to be dropped off for the day, allowed to play in the forest and playground next to it.

Called back for lunch and for nap-time, or, as they grew older, for preliminary classes, their writing, reading, and basic addition taught by the teachers.

And at the age of 10, when the artificial Summer created inside the Bubbles ended and the rains started, they left their childhood home for the School.

Drephl and Frihl were assigned to the Northernmost School of their Quartet, 23 hours away even with the high speeds of the subways.

Their dad spent the last week spoiling them, as did all the other parents with their children, visiting the nearby Amusement Park and adding all the books and movies he could to their accounts.

When the time for goodbyes came, a Teacher coming to pick them up, they cried, huddled on the ground of the subway tunnels. Promises to call every day and visit as often as he could were arranged, and then, they were herded inside, just their backpacks and luggage accompanying them as they left their Bubble.

Frihl quickly found himself content at the dormitory, befriending every kid they came across and spending hours playing with them.

Drephl, in contrast, wasn’t doing so well. He stayed inside their room, relieved beyond measure he was bunking with his twin, and read to pass the time.

Without their dad there to give him a push, with Frihl so focused on his new environment and friends, Drephl found himself sinking deeper and deeper into murder mystery novels and historical accounts of Gravity Falls.

At 12, despite much protest and complaining, even Drephl was forced to pick a club to join.

The guidance counselor was growing very done with him, a single incident away from writing him off as a lost cause on the socializing front.

He was too strange. He didn’t pick up on social clues, he had no manners when eating, he was rude and sarcastic and a smartass, he used vocabulary too posh and pretentious.

He picked and bit his skin, he read books in languages no one else even recognized, he was too particular about his wording and agreements and promises.

(When Fejil broke her promise to give Drephl half the candy she’d gathered at the party he didn’t attend in exchange for his tutoring help, he threw a glass at the wall and hid under a table for an hour, shaking with the silent sobs that wrecked his body, frozen with pure fury in his veins and his heart.)

But for this, there were no exceptions, no other possibilities. It was either join a club that he wanted to, or be forced to join a club.

(Not like Frihl would have such problems; he was already popular, with mountains of close friends and acquaintances. He wasn’t everyone’s favourite, certainly not the teachers’, but he was funny, and friendly, and always so happy.)

(So helpful, so personable. Whichever club he joined would be delighted to have him. Drephl loved him, but it hurt.)

(To be the worse twin.)

So he picked one. It would be a waste of time; he’d rather watch another documentary on Weirdmageddon or read another book on the Woodsman, but he’d make do.

The Magic Research Club had to have something going for it.

(Hopefully.)

Years later, when Drephl was an adult paying his own bills and buying his own groceries and socks, he would finally admit how antisocial he had been as a pre-teen.

He would reflect, on this pessimistic view of everyone else, on the low opinion he had of the average human at the time.

And he would be very grateful indeed that he had chosen the Magic Research Club.

In the Republic of Ombre, located on the Planet of Sierra, magic was very restricted.

No School had a study track or lessons for it; it was only spoken of as part of history, at most as something done on other planets, but not on Sierra, not in the Republic.

To activate Wards, you had to be certified. To cast a single spell, you had to be certified. To even become a Historian of Magic, you had to be certified.

No, magic was not common, nor very popular, on Sierra.

And by extension, the preters were not either.

After only a few club meetings, the ice around him was melted and the walls inside broken through.

No magic was to be done at the club, and they were constantly supervised by one of the only Certified members of the faculty, but they spoke his language.

Specifically, they spoke Transcendental English, Dackian, and Old Latin.

The three languages needed for translation and reading of the kinds of books and articles that passed the censors and ended up all the way on the Ombrian Web.

(And if not on the Web, well, in yard sales and flea markets, places the upper years with actual permission to leave the School would go to and bring back the spoils of their journey.)

Drephl was still strange. He was still gross and awkward and weird.

But so were they, so his interjections, and corrections, and research were accepted with the delight of those who had found another like them, and weren’t willing to let go.

“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?”

Drephl hummed absent mindedly, distracted by the sandwich he was eating and the news he was scrolling on his tablet, only half-listening to his twin.

“That there’s just, nothing outside the Bubbles. I mean, it looks fine! There’s the sun and rain and clouds and everything, but behind those illusions, it’s just death and carnage.”

Frihl should probably eat his food before it grew cold, Drephl thought in response. He’d have to pay the fee if it became unfit for consumption, and their dad was done enough with them after the prank they pulled during his last visit.

On the outside, he only hummed and nodded.

“I mean, what happens to us if a crack or a, or a hole appears? Toxins! Invisible at first, till they gather at the bottom and stack and stack until the air’s so thick there’s no oxygen left and we just die.”

Frihl looked very disturbed at the idea. Most children their age were, when they were taught just what the effects of the “air” outside would be.

Drephl took another bite of his sandwich, and let Frihl’s panic wash over him.

It was an inconspicuous book that started it, that stood out to him like a treasure among trash.

An Overlook Of Demons in Early Sierra.

It was taboo. Demonological knowledge, aside from the most basic of warnings and history, was censored on the Web, some of it by Dack, some of it by Ombre.

It wasn’t a topic of study or profession here. He really shouldn’t; he should leave it to the Dackians, focus on the Transcendence.

But, well. Demons and the Transcendence were connected at the root, weren’t they? It was a demon that started it, a demon whose death triggered it, a demon that rose in the aftermath and took to Gravity Falls as its home.

It was just a summarization, not even 200 pages long. Some basic history, of his own country no less.

Just for his other research.

He kept it to himself, outside of the discussions with his club; not on demons, specifically, never on that. But they were Magical, and their deals and massacres were notable and influential on the things they did talk about, so they came up.

Research into them was difficult, he came to find. He was just 13, he didn’t have permission to leave the School, couldn't even enter the Subway Station without a guardian or supervisor. So he had to make do with scrolling through the keyword search, trawling through the muck of “demon” as an insult and threat, to find anything of use.

To find anything of interest.

On call with his father, updating him on how he’d been doing, whether he’d been eating his veggies and brushing his teeth, he mentions it all during an excited rant, how interesting Demons were and the research he’d been doing into them.

His father went quiet, a troubled expression on his face.

Drephl only noticed after he had finished, his excitement slowly fading as no answer came, finally picking up on the conflicted and worried air his father was giving off.

In the books he wrote, there were no demons.

Before he could say anything, before it could all go wrong, Drephl muttered an apology and ended the call.

(There were pages and stories missing from the journal his mother had owned, removed before it ever went into printing.)

(He should be more careful.)

Sahmil had never forgotten. Or, if she had, he wouldn’t know; but she had certainly never forgiven, taking special care to avoid him, to sit as far away as she could from him at all times.

(She was clearly not happy about sharing the same School.)

(And to be quite frank, neither was he.)

He saw her whispering to her friends, once. He could feel them all staring, staring, staring, like he was a circus animal, like he was a lion kept for entertainment and only barely kept in line with a leash around his neck and a whip in the hands of his trainer.

He should rip out their eyes.

The pictures of them, with their eyes being pulled out while they screamed, their pupils still wildly moving even as he cut the nerves with scissors, blood flowing down his hands in rivers and smelling so good, flooded his mind.

He didn’t gag or retch, didn’t flinch back in horror. His stomach rumbled and he quickly grabbed the meatballs he wanted and ran walked away, finding a quiet place to sit and eat.

(A place that wasn’t visible to her.)

(A place where the phantom taste of her blood wouldn’t drown out his meal and clog his nostrils.)

He hated himself, sometimes.

(When a classmate cut her finger in class, and Drephl looked at the blood for too long, too intensely, too hungrily.)

(When he saw people working out and followed the movement of their muscles and wondered how it would be to bite down and tear it off.)

(When they stood by the open window of the 14th floor and all he could think of was how easy it would be to push them off.)

(How their body would splat in crimson on the pavement below.)

(Of blood on his hands and claws.)

When he found himself relating to the demons in his books.

(When he doubted whether he was human at all.)

Drephl kept it hidden, the interest in Demonology he had developed and continued to pursue.

Even now, hunched over the book of interest he’d managed to procure, having snuck away during a road trip, his twin still in his Elective Pre-Transcendental History class, his heart hammered in his chest and he could barely stand to sit still, scared someone would discover him.

(A bookstore like any other, nestled in that Bubble’s shopping center, but with a special design of the letters on the sign.)

(A bookstore that dealt in the censored, in the restricted, in the magical.)

And he was learning so much from it, more than he could from any of the assorted little tidbits and stories in unrelated books.

As with any Summoning Circle, it was mostly intent that mattered. The design itself could change person to person, motivation to motivation, time to time, but the real interesting part of what he had read wasn’t the Alcorian Symbol of a star and wings in the middle, but the Symbols themselves.

(Not that he had even known that intent was the most important part of a Summoning, or had ever even seen a Circle before.)

Representing different souls, such as Mizar and Gliese, which ones you used to summon Alcor was the most important bit of designing your Summoning Circle of him. The two triangles stacked on top of each other and a square, representing a pine tree during the Transcendence era, found only on Circles used by people who he liked and that he responded to very negatively if you weren’t one of those few people, was one of the more interesting, probably only over-shadowed by the presence of the triangle.

The symbol of Bill Cipher, the demon responsible for the Transcendence, who had caused the apocalypse so much spoken of in the old Gravity Falls journal, a book he kept at his bedside table to this day.

Drephl stared down at it, the simple triangle drawn on his tablet, an absent-minded doodle while he made his way through the book.

He was frustrated, he noted distantly. Angry, shaking with rage, all of his focus locked on that little inconspicuous doodle.

Should rip the eye out.

And this time, he let the visuals fill his mind. Instead of disgust or fear, he only felt a sense of sick satisfaction as he imagined the gore that could be done to such a creature.

I hope his death was exceptionally painful.

He deleted the doodle, closed the book, and left the room.

He could feel it watching him.

The first time he comes across the Twin Souls myth, it is in a breakdown of its long history and of Alcor's perception of it, mainly his very strong aversion of the romantic or sexual interpretations.

It makes him oddly happy.

(Downright proud of the author.)

(He brushes it off.)

Frihl and Drephl, upon reaching the age of 15, were finally allowed out of the School’s bubble, and into the subway stations.

Their brand new subway cards were a point of pride, physical proof of the trust in their ability to act responsibly and civilly in public; a little plastic card that gave them bragging rights and power over their underclassmen and fellow classmates with a few too many marks on their records.

(The guidance counselor was very proud of him for this.)

(The credit, of course, belonged to the Magic Research Club.)

And it was with this that they got tickets to their mother’s next game, approved leave from School grounds, and a gift sent by dad to give to her in his place.

And it was with all of that they saw their mother play for the first time with their very own eyes, blown away by how different it was in real life.

Blown away by the way she smiled and laughed with her team.

They, of course, got backstage access, to talk to mom after the game (a solid win for her team, another victory and prize to stack on the wall at home.)

It went well. They hugged, they catched up, they got some stuff signed for friends (and acquaintances promising to owe them a favour), and she smiled at them the special way she’d only ever do for her children.

(It warmed Drephl’s heart and calmed him down; it lowered his walls and made him squishy and fluffy inside.)

Frihl left first, off to his hotel for the night before the Pre-Transcendence Historians meeting the next day.

And it was only Drephl and his mother, with his guard lowered.

And as he talked of his club, of his friends and research and books he’d read, he brought up Demonology.

She dropped her smile, stopped walking him down the empty hall as he froze, and looked at him with so much judgement and fear disappointment that it stopped his heart and turned his limbs to stone.

"I thought you read the journals and books I left at home."

Breathe, he had to breathe, he had to keep breathing.

It wasn’t a big deal; it’s not like- it was illegal illegal, just- discouraged.

Something the government didn’t want them knowing, because people could do dangerous things with the knowledge, because people could die.

But he never would. She knew that; she was his mother.

She knew that.

"I did!"

Where was he? Who was he talking to?

(Who was he?)

Everything was underwater, distorted, away and far from his body and senses.

"Then you should know the damage Demons can do."

Her voice was clipped and angry, disappointed and firm.

She spoke in a way he’d never heard from her before.

She spoke like she was both scared of and for him.

"Of course I do, I..."

And she sighed, turned to look away, and softened her voice to nearly a whisper.

"I just… I just thought you'd know better."

Shame curdled in his stomach, spread through his limbs and neck and head, travelling somewhere deep within his flesh and bone marrow, settling down and making its home there.

His eyes stung, salty and wet, his face scrunched up and body shaking as he failed at holding back the tears.

"I'm sorry..."

She touched a cold, lifeless hand to his cheek; carefully, softly, like he was fragile.

(Or like she was disgusted to even touch him.)

(To touch the parasite that had grown within her stomach for months.)

(To cradle the face of something that wasn’t a person, to hold with love something so vile and revolting.)

(To love this thing before her, after it had eaten her alive just to be birthed.)

“Be careful. Research like this will only ruin your life.”

And with that,

she left.

He felt cold.

Alone.

(Abandoned.)

He returned the books and got back to safer topics; things like the Pines family, and the European Reforms, and the Preter Rights movements of the time.

Back to debating how a Teleports System might be installed in the Republic, if the restrictions ever loosened. Which kinds of magic could be used to clear the air outside and bring back the Greenery that used to exist there.

(Whether the Government would ever allow something like that, even if the Interplanetary Intervention Union provided full funding and staffing for such a project.)

Frihl gets his first love; his first boyfriend.

He gets his first heart break; his first ex.

Drephl lacks any comforting words to give to him, only being able to offer a shoulder to cry on.

Drephl adjusted the chairs, mentally counting how many people were coming to this week’s meetup.

He’d only just recently started helping out his friend Reno at the book club he frequented alongside the Magic Research Club; each week, they’d pick a book to read, and then discuss it at the next meeting.

The books they chose were all fictional, from a wide array of genres and styles, far out of Drephl’s comfort zone and usual picks, those being of murder mysteries and transcendence-era historical dramas, but he still enjoyed the experience.

Widening his horizons; talking with people, staying on a safe and pre-picked topic, his pickiness about words and phrasing finally having an audience that did not dislike him for it.

It was a relaxed atmosphere, where he felt- safe, almost, to practice keeping up conversation. To keep his hands occupied and away from his teeth.

It was a fun hobby, yes, but just that.

He never could’ve guessed how important it would end up being for his life.

The books started giving him headaches and hurting his eyes when he read.

It was official; he had inherited his father’s sight, instead of their mother’s.

He had to get reading glasses.

They weren’t an official club, exactly; it was more of an open door policy, located in the corner of one of the school’s libraries, welcoming of anyone who happened to come by them.

Ghali did not just happen upon them, however. She’d heard of it from a friend, and decided to find out and read that week’s book to join them in discussion immediately.

She was a centaur, of dark skin and light hair, her coat snow-white with patches of brown.

She was beautiful, in the way many people objectively were.

They ended up having to shuffle the chairs around a bit, grab some extra pillows for comfort, but she had arrived early for just such a purpose, and so there was no further trouble.

And just like that, they had gained a new member.

Drephl found himself drifting closer and closer to her every meeting, laughing loudly at her smart comments and snide remarks, listening intently to her in-depth analysis of the texts they read, the way she wove her words like a poem in real-time.

She appreciated his sarcasm, the depth of knowledge he possessed on very particular topics, the care he put towards the organization and upkeep of their little corner of the library.

They got on like a house on fire, frankly. Quickly, explosively, and much to the chagrin of their surrounding peers’ ears as they fell over themselves in laughter once again.

He helped her study, and she sought him out when their lunch times collided.

He helped adjust her clothing until it was perfect, and she accompanied him on his flea market hunts.

As natural as breathing, as easy as sliding two fitting puzzle pieces together, they called each other “best friend”.

Drephl loved his father, and his brother; he truly did, as much as he loved his mother and friends.

But if another remark about his new friend was made, he would set the house on fire and happily roast alive inside of it.

“Knowing” looks, assurances he could tell them anything, winking like there was a secret they were in on.

Infuriating, as he had dreaded it being. Annoying, as he had silently begged them not to be.

And no matter how hard he pleaded them to stop, to quit those accusations and insinuations, it only made it worse.

He had to take a walk to cool off, preferring the company of the mosquitoes to that of his “family”.

Drephl didn’t “do” crushes. He didn’t do love, he didn’t do it at first sight or as a slow burn or as anything else that people would suggest to him.

The stories of it bored him, the idea of it revulsed him.

Ghali relayed much of those same thoughts to him.

“It is not that I have anything against it,” she had carefully picked her words. “I just don’t think it’s the right thing for me, in this life at least.”

Drephl, however, soon would have something against it, if everyone didn’t leave them alone and actually use their ears for once in their cursed lives.

Forget love, forget crushes, forget his annoying brother, his real enemy was Final Exams.

Graduation from school was in two months, and so, their Evaluations were coming.

Just the most important tests of their entire lives, here to decide which job would hire them and which job would leave them out to dry.

Degrees and letters of recommendation, applications for College on the nearby campus, their Club Completion Letters, an update on their Subway Cards from “student” to “normal fucking member of society.”

His head hurt. His eyes burned.

There was a sensation of pain and unrest in his stomach, as if he hadn’t just fed it a few potato chips two hours ago.

Weak, weak stomach. There was no time for eat, only time for read.

And read he did, read and read and read until the words blurred and his head screamed and his throat clamped together as if it had dried- oh, yeah water.

It was lukewarm.

Read read read read.

Read read read read read.

Words, and they danced! Oh, how they danced, just like Ghali and Drephl had done recently, to some new song or another; Drephl didn’t care, and Ghali only listened to-

Something. A thing. Some type of music.

Ohhh, Ghali. Centaur of his heart. Key to his dead and cold heart. She should make a house out of it, really. Get it pumping again, maybe put the blood flow back in his legs, and a fork in his eye-

Nope, nope, nope. No eyes. Just dry eyes, and words on his tablet and books.

Ghali! He appreciated her, truly, of course, of course. Amazing best friend, clicking into his life just so, as if she were the Mizar to his Alcor.

Hmm. Words.

He needs to keep reading.

He passed with flying colours, and made sure to destroy all of his notes.

A dark time for him, and for every other student; he was impressed by how much they all looked like zombies. He was sure if someone got a three-part harmony going, all of their heads would plop right open. He could eat the brains left over on the ground; a buffet, prepared just for him!

Haha. No, but it really was impressive that they all looked worse than the actual born vampire, who was glowing just as much as you would if you managed to remain so put-together throughout the final exam season and still come out in the top 5.

Damn vampires. He needed to learn their tricks.

Could a born vampire turn him into one? He should check.

Ghali, thankfully, dragged him off before he could jump out of the bushes he was camped out in and ambush the poor girl.