The Killing Joke

Quentin sat at the table, head buried in an ontology book, his cheeks a burnt scarlet. He was more than aware that every head in the physical kids' common room was turned towards him, staring past the duo of friends that sat on either side of him, looking both in awe, and terror at his appearance. Their whispered gossiping buzzed throughout the corridor, like the chatter of locusts.

"Quentin, we should probably leave," Margo whispered. "We can always go by the Van Pelt fountain. It's not like anyone goes near it anymore. You know, since the gruesome deaths and all."

"No," Quentin replied. "We like, haven't done anything to anyone, um...so, I say we stay here and do our assignment."

Eliot, showing concern, ran a hand across Quentin's hair, removing the stray ends from his face.

"Quentin, I think this is one of those times where being the 'horny' one is frowned upon." Intertwining his fingers, ending with both thumbs touched to the tips of their respective index fingers, Eliot uttered, "Peribit," causing Quentin's horns to vanish. He watched Quentin's face, looking for an inkling of change. "They're not gone, the light around them is just bending. I learned it from Ali—" He'd cut his own sentence short.

"No, 'Thank you' or 'I'll come with you to Ibiza?' Pity," Margo said in disappointment.

Of course, Eliot was right, it was frowned upon. No one at Brakebills University, other than his friends had seen, or even believed that any of the Fillorian creatures existed, least of all a freaky half-breed ram-boy. Now, here he sat, with a pair of newly invisible curled horns protruding from the sides of his head. Quentin felt more ostracized than he ever had in the public schooling.

Elliot continued. "Seriously, you've got to cheer up. At least put the homework away! You're not seriously considering doing it, right? You know it's just a ploy to see which lame-o from the first years actually does it; separating the dullards from the true party animals," he said, giving Margo a silent growl and claw gesture.

"Honestly, Quentin, it won't even be graded," Margo whined.

Quentin shot them both dirty looks, muttering, "I'd rather be a lame-o, than this faun thing..."

Penny joined them at the table. "Look Quentin, I'm tired of you feeling freaking sorry for yourself. So what if you were conceived when Ember inhabited your dad's body, and so what if it left him with cancer. You inherited the ability to alter reality from him. I feel soooo sorry for you!" Penny sarcastically retorted.

No one spoke for what seemed like forever.

Margo broke the silence, "Wait, so are you telling me you can pretty much think something up, and make it happen?"

Quentin looked up at her. "Well, um, it's something like that, but, Ember warned me that there were rules. Like, uh, I can't change serious things, and he...um, said something else after asking for little cakes...nothing infidelity related, but I can-"

"You know," Margo interrupted. "You talk like someone whose words were typed by a random guy entering some 1,500 Syfy writing competition. Brakebills does offer classes for that horrible stammering, just so you know. Anyway, change this. Chop, chop," she demanded, stretching the clothing tightly over her chest.

Confused, Quentin asked, "You, like, um...want them bigger? Uh, as in double D's?"

"No, loser. Change my blue Prada dress to the red Valentino sleeveless one that I left in my closet this morning."

"That's easy," Quentin admitted. He began by rolling his eyes to the back of their sockets, moving his arms up and down, and turning his head mechanically, as if doing the Robot, screaming, "BALENCIAGA!"