Chapter Text
"Clementine."
Once again, you are torn away from the lecture, not as if you had really been mentally present.
Social studies had never been your thing; everything social felt like a foreign dialect that everyone else spoke fluently.
Your pen pauses mid-stroke, a word left half-written on the paper as you exhale quietly.
Of course.
"What?" you finally whisper, turning your head to the right.
There he sits. The one person you would probably least want to sit next to–out of the entire introductory semester class.
Louis.
Dark skin, dreadlocks falling loosely behind him, as if he doesn't care about anything in the world. Casual cargo jeans, a flashy designer sweater, the posture of someone who can fit in anywhere, even where there's no room.
He leans over toward you, too close.
"Clementine," he repeats with a grin. "That's her name. The girl you've been staring at for the last twenty minutes."
His voice is much too loud for a lecture hall full of people, and you immediately have the uncomfortable feeling that everyone is staring at you, even though that's probably just in your head.
Great, now this.
"I'm not staring at anyone," you retort immediately, too quickly, too sharply, and you realize how defensive it sounds.
Your gaze slides back to the front, as if you could simply erase the situation by ignoring it.
"And stop sitting next to me all the time." Your tone remains quiet but firm as your pen starts writing again–even though you have no idea what's on the board.
["But you were staring. You humans are just frighteningly simple-minded."]
You ignore the voice.
At least for now. Not because it's wrong, but because you already have enough distractions: the boy next to you, who is obviously enjoying your presence.
And the professor at the front, whose material you really should be taking notes on if you want to maintain those good grades.
Focus. Just a little focus.
Nevertheless, you briefly glance forward–not at the blackboard, not at the professor, but at her.
She sits a few rows in front of you, curly dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, simple clothes, almost deliberately inconspicuous, as if she has no interest in being noticed.
And yet that's exactly what attracts you like a magnet. You force yourself to lower your gaze again.
"You were totally staring," Louis replies promptly, almost smugly. "And about the seat next to you–I just like sitting next to outsiders, you know? Gives you more perspective and stuff." He shrugs as if he's just said something profound.
["Is 'outsider' an insult among you humans?"]
[“And who does that guy think he is? He always sits next to us and annoys us the whole hour.”]
Calm down. He probably doesn't mean it the way it sounds. Or maybe he does. Louis is just... thoughtless. Stupid would be too harsh, but people like him often speak before they think. Very often. Far too often.
Your gaze returns to the front, this time actually to the professor, who is walking around the room reciting something monotonously from his script.
Your hand writes almost automatically, without your mind really following–keywords, arrows, half-sentences. You note movements, emphases, things that sound important, even if you'll hardly remember them later.
["But you said this is a university, don't only smart people come here?"]
That's what you'd think. But that's not how the human world works.
You pause briefly, then start again.
Would you please be a little quieter? I need to concentrate. The guy next to me is already getting on my nerves.
[“We’re not guys! We’re Devils!”]
That's not what I meant.
Thinking while speaking, speaking while thinking, the guy next to you who talks your ear off while you're writing, listening, and trying not to completely lose control–it's slowly becoming too much. Even for you.
Your head feels like it's working on too many levels at once, each one pulling at your attention.
"But you two would be really good together, you know?" Louis just keeps talking as if there were no inner resistance, no boundaries. "You're both outsiders, even if Clementine is a mystery. After all, everyone knows her, but no one is really friends with her."
He talks too much. Can't someone just cut this guy's tongue out or something?
[“We can do that!”]
[“Just take Gallus, one cut, and you’re done. You don’t even need 5% for that.”]
Your hand clenches around the pen. No.
"Can you finally shut up?" The words slip out before you can stop them, louder than intended. Too loud. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several heads turn toward you. "I'm trying to study here, and I–!"
You immediately lower your voice and lean forward slightly. "I wasn't staring at anyone. And I'm not an outsider either!"
"Oh man, now you're lying to yourself," Louis whispers back, at least that much. His voice sounds almost amused. "You were totally staring at her. But that's okay, we're not in school anymore, that's normal. But the outsider thing? You really can't deny that."
You don't answer.
Instead, you lower your gaze to the sheet of paper in front of you. The page is completely covered in writing, densely packed with keywords, lines, arrows, as if you had been trying to bring order to something that had long since slipped away from you.
Slowly, you turn the paper over, feel the pen in your hand again, which feels numb, and let it rotate between your fingers without thinking.
Was university really the right decision?
The thought comes quietly, cautiously, almost guiltily–and is immediately trampled on.
Of course it was. Hunting and killing walkers doesn't pay the bills, buy food, or get you off the radar of people who ask questions. Think rationally. As always.
Still, your stomach tightens uncomfortably, that strange, floating feeling as if you're about to fall, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster when everything pauses before going down.
"I–!" you start, more out of reflex than intention.
"I have a huge crush." Louis interrupts you immediately, and not quietly, of course. "Is that what you wanted to say?"
["Maybe we really should have cut out his tongue."]
[“That guy talks way too much. If he tells anyone, he’ll end up betraying us.”]
Not you too now.
"But, dude, it's no big deal," Louis continues undeterred, as if he hadn't just crossed an inner boundary. "I'll tell you something."
He takes a deep breath, leans forward, puts his arm on the tray, and shoves his cell phone right in front of your face, way too close, way too suddenly.
"See what it says?" he asks, waving the display so close to your face that it almost brushes your nose.
It takes your eyes less than a second to focus. A chat window. WhatsApp, most likely. Far too many stickers, emojis, colorful pictures–hardly any text, everything jumbled together chaotically.
["Why do you humans always send pictures instead of just writing?"]
[“Your brains must be incredibly slow. No wonder there are walkers who want to eat them.”]
"Not the chat," Louis whispers, at least more quietly this time. "Look at the top. The pinned message." He pushes the phone even closer, as if that were possible.
Your gaze wanders upward.
Party at Ruby's tonight. Bring whatever you want.
You think about it for a moment as you reach out your arm–half to signal that you've read the message, half as a silent plea for him to finally take his damn phone away from your face.
Your gaze reluctantly leaves the display.
["Y/N, what is a party anyway?"]
["And who is this Ruby? I don't remember that name."]
You ignore her. Again. It's easy to ignore a few Devils talking in your head at the same time – especially when everything is already getting too much and you're trying to appear halfway normal.
"Listen, Louis..." You finally look up from your sheet and look him in the face. You are met with a broad, completely thoughtless smile, as if there were no boundaries to be crossed. "I don't know this Ruby..."
["Lie number one."]
Shut up. Even if I did know her, I wouldn't show up. There's a reason I prefer to sit alone, and even an idiot like him should understand that.
You take a quick breath, realizing only then that you've been holding it for quite a while – and immediately your stomach responds with a dull ache. For a split second, the memory of yesterday flashes before your eyes, the fight, the bruises you sustained.
"And even if I did," you add, a little more sharply than you intended, "I'm not really the party type–"
"You're probably not really the people type in general." He interrupts you without hesitation.
Asshole.
"But that's exactly why it's an opportunity!" he continues, now louder, much too loud. "Trust me, you'll thank me for getting you an invitation like this."
["But if this Ruby doesn't even know us, how exactly did she invite us?"]
[“More importantly, is Ruby a boy’s name or a girl’s name?!”]
She didn't invite us. And it's a girl's name. Louis just wants to drag me along, and he doesn't seem to understand that I don't want to go.
"You may not know Ruby," he finally says, leaning closer again, his voice now a whisper once more, "but the only thing you need to know is she knows Clementine."
You finally stop writing. According to your internal clock, the lecture should be over in the next few minutes anyway, so you might as well take a break from hours of notetaking.
Your pen hangs motionless over the paper as the room around you suddenly feels much louder than it actually is.
"You know," Louis continues, apparently unable to keep a thought to himself, "the girl you've been staring at the whole time."
You wish that when you enrolled in college–and especially in this class–you could have somehow ruled out situations like this.
One of the biggest advantages of university should be that you're not constantly forced to participate socially, that no one expects you to get involved, talk, or stand out. Grades, admissions, all of that is decided by exams, and you can pass them with ease.
Without conversations. Without closeness. Without Louis.
At first, you even tried to find a study group. People who are similar to you. The experiment didn't last long.
Similar is relative – and at the latest when it comes to roaming the city at night in disguise and fighting creatures that eat human flesh with the help of Devils, any common ground suddenly disappears.
It goes without saying that you didn't mention any of this when you introduced yourself. The names of your Devils alone – Canis, Equus, Gallus, and Felis, Latin names for animals – might have been a nice fun fact.
A fun fact that would most likely have catapulted you straight into a psychiatric evaluation.
Hi, I'm Y/N, but you can call me Nacht. You might know me from the internet–the guy who hunts these monsters. Oh, and I have devils in my head that I can borrow powers from. One of them can even manipulate electrical devices and helps me with exams.
What an introduction. You could really sit right next to Louis.
"Listen..." You have to think for a moment about how he introduced himself. "Louis."
"You even know my name." He says it with a tone that sounds like he's about to burst out laughing at any moment, smug and far too proud for something so mundane.
"I don't stare at girls, I don't know this Ruby, and I'm not going to show up at this party." Your voice remains calm and serious, even though speaking again robs you of more oxygen than you'd like.
"What?" he replies much too loudly. "Do you have superhero duties again, which happen to be on Friday night?"
[“That’s the sixth time he’s said something like that.”]
[“Maybe we really should do something about this guy... even if he doesn’t look particularly dangerous.”]
"If I told you I was Nacht," you finally reply, with the best poker face you can muster at that moment, "would you finally leave me alone?"
For a moment, there is silence. No more whispering, no more rustling. Then the silence is abruptly broken. Chairs are moved, pens fall, bags are thrown over shoulders, conversations flare up everywhere at once.
"No... and do you know why?" Louis slowly stands up, his grin wider than you would have thought possible.
"No. Why?" You also stand up and stuff everything from the shelf into your bag without sorting it–pen, papers, the small water bottle. You don't care about tidiness in the slightest right now.
"Would you listen to me again?"
You know immediately who it is. Even before Louis can think of turning his head forward.
The professor.
"I've already graded your exams. Before you leave, you can pick them up here at the front. The average is below expectations, but the next one will be better."
The first thing that fills the lecture hall is a collective groan. Some immediately get up and move forward, others slump back into their seats in resignation. Getting an exam back just before the weekend is no gift for anyone–and you can feel it.
"Oh dude, Mister Everett is giving us back the exam so close to the weekend?" Louis throws his bag over his shoulder; it lands crooked and half open. "I really thought it would take him longer to correct."
["What an idiot."]
I couldn't agree more. What an idiot.
You stay seated, deliberately. And surprisingly, Louis does too. Being the first to go to the front and push your way through a hall full of hundreds of students would be the biggest mistake you could make.
"What percentage do you think I got?" Louis finally asks, almost panicked. His gaze jumps back and forth between you and the desk. "You don't think I failed the course, do you?"
I wish you could fail here. Then at least you wouldn't be able to sit next to me anymore.
"This is an introductory course," you say calmly. You can tell from Louis' blank stare that he hasn't understood a word. "The exams are there to assess your performance. So that you can choose a major next year."
He still looks at you as if you were speaking a foreign language, so you summarize it for people who shouldn't really be at university.
"You can't fail here."
"Thank God," Louis says with relief. "Then I can still use my time wisely."
You spend your time talking to girls, annoying me, or doing anything else except paying attention.
The lecture hall is now almost empty. You get up, push past Louis, and make your way to the front to pick up your exam.
Walking between the rows of now empty seats always feels strange, as if the room suddenly seems bigger, hollower.
Unfortunately, Louis is immediately back at your side and walks slowly with you toward the professor.
Even out of the corner of your eye, you notice the difference in height once again – he's almost a head taller than you, but massively dumber.
"You wanted to tell me something," you remark, cursing yourself at the same moment for reminding him.
"Oh, yes..." He grins. "I wanted to tell you why you're still going to show up at the party."
Oh no. He really won't let this damn topic go.
["Is he going to force us? Him?!"]
"Oh really?" Your tone drips with sarcasm. Theoretically, you could easily kill him right here and now with one of your devils.
"Yes." Instead of continuing on to the professor, Louis suddenly turns toward the exit.
"I already told them," he calls over his shoulder, "that I'd be bringing someone very special with me!"
And then he's gone, disappeared through the door before you can even react or call after him.
Damn it. That bastard. Now he's leaving before I can say anything–and he's not even picking up his exam?
Your thoughts race as you finally reach the teacher's desk.
The professor isn't sitting directly in front of you, but at the table to the side; the two desks are arranged in an L-shape, which at least allows you to avoid making eye contact right away. A small consolation.
You place your fingertips on the stack of exams. Only the names are on the front, no grades. Professor Everett does this on purpose, you've heard, so that no one is embarrassed, so that no grades are left out in the open.
One of those well-intentioned pedagogical gestures.
Violet. Luke. Louis. Where's mine?
You go through the names again. A few more appear, but yours is missing. No Y/N, no entry, nothing.
Your gaze wanders over the stack a second time, slower, more carefully, as if you could conjure up your name just by concentrating hard enough.
Maybe I just misread it.
You check a third time. No. It's not there.
Did any of you see my name? Canis, maybe you?
[“No. Your name wasn’t there. I’m sure of it.”]
Damn. Then I'll really have to ask him.
You take a careful breath, immediately feeling the bruises under your ribs again and cursing yourself for not stopping earlier yesterday. You hesitate for a moment, then force yourself to lift your head slightly.
"Professor Everett?"
The man looks up from his work. Short black hair, a hint of stubble, athletic build–nothing intimidating, and yet a single glance is enough to remind you that he is the authority here.
His eyes rest on you, attentive, not annoyed, not rushed.
"I don't want to disturb you, but I think..."
He certainly doesn't care what you think. He has hundreds of students, deadlines, exams, and emails. And you've already broken the "don't disturb" rule – you're standing here interrupting him at work.
["You're being far too hard on yourself."]
["For once, I agree with Equus."]
"I don't think my exam is in the pile," you start again, calmer, more controlled, "and I wanted to ask if you might still have it. If you're still grading it, that's no problem, of course–I just wanted to check to be sure."
For a moment, he says nothing. He just looks at you, then his posture relaxes slightly and a small, honest smile appears on his face.
"You're very polite," he says, his voice calm, almost serene in a way you don't often hear at a university.
["Should we insult him or what?!"]
["He's really nice."]
Silence again. He looks you over, not unpleasantly, more curiously, while you try not to think about how long you've been standing there, how heavy your legs suddenly feel.
The moment drags on, stretches out, until he finally speaks again.
"What's your name?"
"Y/N," you reply, and only then realize that you forgot to breathe.
"Ah," he says quietly. "So, you're Y/N."
For a moment, you're confused. Then nervous. And then–for some reason–confused again.
Does he know me? Have you seen him somewhere before? He shouldn't know you, except maybe as a name on a test. Right? Did I save him from a Walker once? Unlikely.
["You're reading too much into this. Just ask him."]
"You can call me Lee," he finally says, still with that calm look, "after all, I'm calling you by your first name."
Everett. Lee Everett, then. But should I really call him by his first name? He's still a professor. Authority. Rules.
"The reason I don't have your exam here," he continues, "was so I could finally talk to you. Person to person."
Your pulse quickens, your nervousness increases, and suddenly you hear your own heartbeat much too loudly in your ears.
["He lured us into a trap perfectly–and we fell for it!"]
[“Damn it! If that’s a Walker, we have to attack immediately!”]
[“Stay calm. Observe. Wait and see.”]
[“Yeah, right, let's just wait until he attacks us. Brilliant idea.”]
Now finally calm down. He's been a professor here for years, and he doesn't look nearly as dangerous as some of the walkers we've taken down together. I'm waiting. For now.
"Excuse me?" you finally manage to say.
"You wrote the best exam in the course," he says, his voice sounding almost... satisfied. "More precisely: the best in the entire year."
He leans back, a broad grin on his lips, and rummages briefly in his bag, as if this were all a casual observation to him.
You force your left hand to relax.
To say you were ready to attack would have been a gross understatement–for a tiny moment, you had already calculated which Devil you would take and what percentage would be enough.
He pulls out an exam and holds it out to you. You don't hesitate for long, reaching for it and pulling it toward you, almost reflexively.
97.9%.
He grades generously, that's clear, but what the hell was missing? Two-point one percent. There must have been something somewhere.
["You have the best exam of the entire class. Who cares about the missing points?"]
Professor Everett–Lee–stands in front of you, relaxed, his attention entirely on you.
"Why don't you ever participate in class?" he asks, calmly, without reproach. "I think your perspective would be a real asset to this course."
As if I could speak freely in a room full of people. Hundreds of eyes focused on me as soon as I open my mouth. Revealing my own opinion and then watching it get picked apart because it doesn't fit the mold.
No, thank you.
"I'm not the talkative type," you reply calmly, in control. "And I'm probably not the only one here."
A solid excuse. Maybe even a good one.
Still, it nags at you a little–after all, it's not his fault that social studies is just a required course for most people, one they want to get through with as little effort as possible.
"I guess there's no changing that," Lee finally says. "Still, I'd like to talk about a few of your answers." A quick glance at your exam. "I'm sure you're wondering where the rest of the points went."
Actually, yes, 100% seems impossible when every professor or lecturer grades differently. But he wants to talk about my answers, which ones exactly and why?
Then he looks up again.
"Do you believe in Walkers?"
Silence.
The room seems to stand still for a moment, as if someone had sucked the air out of it. Your mind races, searching for something to hold on to, for a reaction that gives nothing away.
How should you look now? Neutral? Surprised? Amused?
You don't even know how to think–only that any wrong move could be too much, too honest, too quick, too revealing.
"I... think they exist," you finally say, after the silence between you has become almost painful. "However, I can't remember ever putting that opinion down on paper."
"I know," Lee replies calmly. "Most people don't believe in them anyway. And yet even the news is reporting on these... things."
He tilts his head slightly. "However, from your answers, I could deduce that you would like to see more attention paid to certain social issues. Especially those related to the safety of us humans."
If there were more attention, I wouldn't have to call the police myself and disappear after every Walker I beat or kill. Then I wouldn't have to fight these things myself. Why isn't this problem being taken seriously?!
"Professor Everett–"
"Lee," he interrupts you, kindly but firmly.
You exhale quietly. "I think there are many problems in our society that are hardly ever talked about," you say calmly.
"But when it comes to things that exist openly and cost human lives, you shouldn't wait. You have to act immediately."
["Good answer."]
[“More like: perfect answer.”]
"I understand," Lee says simply.
He turns slightly, grabs his bag, and slings it over his shoulder without his small, attentive smile disappearing for even a second.
"I'm currently looking for a junior teaching assistant," he continues. "You're still in your introductory semester, but still..." He looks directly at you. "I'd like to ask you if you could imagine becoming my assistant."
Wait a minute.
[“So that was his goal all along?”]
I've only been here for a few weeks. I've barely settled in, barely gotten to grips with the system–and now I'm suddenly supposed to help people with subjects that I'm still learning myself?
The thought feels absurd, almost wrong, as if someone had skipped a step that you yourself hadn't even seen yet.
You're about to respond, an automatic "no" on the tip of your tongue, but you pause. For a brief moment, you force yourself to really think about it–not out of politeness, but out of habit.
You know what your everyday life looks like. After university, you go home, get a few hours of sleep, then head back out into the night, to where this world is slowly falling apart and no one is looking.
When exactly am I supposed to fit that in?
["You have absolutely no time, and on top of that, the walkers have been multiplying lately. Not just more–more dangerous."]
You exhale quietly, feeling that familiar tug between duty and reality. Then you look back at Lee, who is still standing calmly in front of you, as if he has all the time in the world.
"I'll think about it... Lee," you finally say. You put on a smile, one that feels less genuine than you'd like, and turn toward the exit.
"Take all the time you need," he calls after you.
You can tell from the tone of his voice that he is still smiling.
He's far too good for this world.