There's No I in Story

Drama of Clear Lake Academy

She took refuge beneath the school. Beneath the gym, to be exact, where the thunderous footsteps of students festered and echoed through the underground catacombs. She would lay soundlessly, golden eyes a spear through the stone above. They were her most valued trophy; they could watch the humans even as they ran above her, above her secret tunnels. She would stare daggers at one of them, one that stuck near the others and could not bear to be alone, and that one would be targeted for further process. She would come up after the last scream of the bell, and she would stalk the targeted one when eventually the student would be found alone, and she would Mark the student. The Marked one would never have seen her; the students knew her to be a myth. They called her Drama.

The Mark would not be notable to the Marked one, but the peers of the Marked would know. They would know that the Marked was not pleasant to be around, that the Marked was no more an ally, no more one that they loved. And they would come to know that the Marked would laugh when all was sober, and that the Marked would weep when all was joyous. The Marked would backstab them when they were benevolent and would embrace them when they were malevolent. And they would leave the Marked to rot alone, huddled atop a skyscraper of tears, surrounded by laughter. The Marked would be alone.

Forever.

"Oh. My. God." These were the words of another student, one such as the Hero. Drama dubbed her the Hero, though also the Destroyer. The Rescuer. Death Herald. The Hero glanced over at the student who was bent over the table, eyes round as she spoke, mouth parted only barely. "Jacob dumped Lynda! She posted on Snapchat, see! O.M.G. And Rye asked Aspen to the dance!" There was an extravagant murmur from around the table, a mesh of doubt, apathy, and pretense enthrallment.

The Hero's features darkened, and she returned her gaze to the table she was at. The other student, named Joy, had been the cause of many exasperated faces for the last week or so. The Hero had watched as many of her peers fled from her exaggerated hand movements, depressed words, and temperamental moods. One moment passed where Joy was as cheerful and garrulous as ever, and the next she was sallow and despondent. The Hero could sense that the sudden change of character, though subtle to start, was not natural, and though there was the palpable sense of perverse power haloed around Joy's head, the Hero could not dream of the reason why.

The Hero started at the sound of her name, and she turned as Stanley settled upon the seat to her left. "What're you up to?" he asked, elbows cocked on the tabletop. Drama had named Stanley the Seconder, for he agreed always to what the Hero declared.

The Hero's gut spasmed for the annoyance that exploded through her. "Homework," she muttered, and her hand moved to gesture to the laptop and notebook before her. Could Stanley not leave her alone? Couldn't he just go away and bother someone else for once? Three years had passed after they had met, and yet he was here, calculable and unchanged. The Hero knew that he wanted to be elsewhere anyways, not next to her. He wanted to return to Joy's group. He wanted to escape her. And the Hero wanted to escape the Seconder.

There was an elongated pause, but the Hero refused to care. Soon, the Seconder gave a shrug of apathy, and he then rose and casually patted her on the shoulder. "Well, have fun," he grunted, then turned to wander off toward the table that Joy and her group enveloped. He was welcomed warmly, shouted taunts flung toward the Seconder. The "warmly" of the school was not equal to the "warmly" of the rest of the world.

From far below, Drama's amber eyes glowed and shattered the shadow around them.

She watched the Seconder.

The students were not alone. The Marked had gathered amongst others of the Mark, and they roamed the school, owned the school through waves of wayward screams and morose moans. Drama watched the packs of students, those that had been Marked, as the others shunned them and scattered whenever they neared, though always they would return after they were Marked to assume the roles of mere Seconders. There were many Seconders for the school's leaders. They laughed when the alphas of the packs laughed, and they sobbed when they sobbed. There were hundreds of them.

Drama saw all, and she knew the Marked were more numerous than the others by now. The targeted were feeble, for the strength shot through the numbers of un-Marked had melted to the flame of the packs. Drama was unconcerned. She knew that her duty was to Mark them, not to ensure that they were separated from the rest. And, day by day, the Marked swarmed through the school, exploded though the school, larger and larger every day. Drama's job was elementary, but she watched. She always watched.