#how dare i make an error when doing MATH which i nearly FAILED in high school

[dahliabug]

how have i become a manager and co owner of a business this year like 😭 i came into it willingly and happily but brooo its um. its hard!

[beca-mitchell]

we are the wild youth (1/5)

summary:  Beca needs some money to get out of Barden as quickly as possible. It just so happens that an opportunity all but drops in her lap: one Chloe Beale, desperately in need of a tutor to pass her last two classes to graduate.

Warnings for smut and angst and drama. Mainly smut. Rated M/E.

chapter one:  fever dream high

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

word count: 3,178

Rated M/E for depictions of coitus. This fic is an AU imagining of PP somewhat: Beca never joins the Bellas and is somewhat of a nerd, Chloe still stays back an extra three years, and there's backstory that was never part of the PP universe. But otherwise, it is set at Barden, Beca still loves music.

Fic title from “Youth” by Daughter. Chapter title from “Cruel Summer” by Taylor Swift. This fic is based on this gifset.

Read below or on AO3.

Beca just wants to graduate.

The deal she cut with her father is not the best deal in the world, but to him, a degree means something. Something meaningful. Meaningful enough that he’s willing to help her get the fuck out of Atlanta and move to New York. That kind of meaningful.

So in that sense, her degree is meaningful to her too. No time for fucking around.

But, senior year kind of means that she can start to take it easy. She’s almost there. She just needs to continue keeping her guard up long enough to ensure that Jesse still gets the hint she’s not interested in him and she just needs to pass.

Hence why this beginning-of-year party is an anomaly, but she’ll take it if there’s free alcohol and maybe the chance to unwind. Bedmate optional.

Beca isn’t one for parties. Definitely not one for house parties at a frat house.

She supposes these are the people who will end up playing her music in the future, however. Peering around, she grimaces at the very-near-public sex happening right on a couch that looks a little too used. A little too comfortable.

Start-of-term parties are always memorable in their own way. They’re almost formulaic in a sense. Guy gets girl, something valuable will be broken—maybe a television, maybe a heart—and something will go wrong.

Beca likes observing all of this from the outskirts while Jesse, who is the only person daring enough to drag her out of her apartment, floats away like the social butterfly he is.

It’s not that she hates parties, nor is she a recluse, Beca is just kind of tired of college at this point. She had promised her parents at least two years in college before she could head out to Los Angeles and really fulfill her dreams, but it turns out that she kind of needs money for that. Money which she doesn’t really have even if she’s been saving up pennies and quarters since middle school.

School is a safety net. She’s been told that all her life, with no small measure of patronization.

It also kind of sucks that Beca inherited at least a portion of her father’s intelligence. The daughter of a professor? There was no way he was letting her leave Barden without at least degree. Realistically, she inherited his knack for school because she’s kind of good at it. Physics, at least, hasn’t been a problem. Or Calculus.

It’s just fucking boring and she doesn’t even intend on using her degree. And she only chose something deeply rooted in science and math because she thought it would piss him off.

Many errors have been made. Miscalculated, even. Or perhaps more on point, horribly erroneous like a series of wrong notes in the middle of a symphony.

Beca could go on.

She can hear her father’s voice, somehow cutting through the raucous party and lodging deep in her head: “But your little music gigs, Beca? It’s a hobby. Science and math? That’ll get you jobs.” Then in the same breath, without fail: “It’s what your mother would want.”

The forced reminder makes Beca take another swig of cheap beer before she makes her way over to the keg for more. As she turns the corner, she stumbles, bumping into a shockingly solid body. As she drops her thankfully-empty cup, she reaches up to grab on to the arms that have come around her back to steady her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, lifting her gaze to make some kind of eye contact when she realizes the body she’s pressed against doesn’t belong to yet another generic frat boy. Instead, she feels soft, feminine curves and the slightest hint of firm muscle beneath the fabric of a thin leather jacket.

Shockingly blue eyes stare back at her. “Hi,” she greets.

“Hi,” Beca replies, still stunned. “Um,” she steps back from the stranger’s space. Or...somewhat of a stranger would be a more apt descriptor. She would be remiss if she didn’t acknowledge that she just nearly bowled over Chloe Beale whose last name just happens to be on at least two buildings around school. Chloe Beale who is devastatingly pretty with blue eyes to die for and red hair and a burning smile.

Chloe Beale who is staring at her like she’s seeing her for the first time.

(She probably is.)

“Beca, right?”

Beca swallows. “I—yeah. How…?” Beca shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m not usually this horribly awkward.”

Chloe smiles. “How are you, usually, then? Other than being the most talented radio host Barden has ever had.”

It’s the oddest interaction to be having with a stranger in the middle of a house party. Beca can barely hear her own thoughts.

Chloe seems to read her mind. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”

Beca has never agreed to a cliche more quickly in her life.

- - x - - 

It doesn’t take long—in fact, Beca barely gets out the question “How do you know my name?” before Chloe is in her space and pulling her in for a bruising kiss. Beca’s body immediately thrums with excitement and repressed energy and she quickly pushes back at Chloe, determined to at least put up some small measure of a fight against Chloe’s immediate dominance over her.

But she quickly realizes that it feels so much better, letting Chloe take control like this—Chloe whom Beca had no idea even knew she existed, let alone wanted to hook up with her.

Chloe’s breath is hot against her neck while she holds Beca against the dresser. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, Mitchell,” she breathes, voice dripping with promise and pure want.

Beca’s brain short-circuits then, a symphony of jangled notes and endless crescendos. She can only nod weakly, hands scrabbling up Chloe’s back and pulling at the thing fabric of her shirt uselessly before she grabs onto Chloe’s hair and pulls her in for another kiss.

Chloe groans and pushes back against Beca, tilting her further over the dresser and displacing bottles of cologne and accessories. Strong hands grab at her thighs and force her legs apart so Chloe’s hips can settle more firmly between Beca’s legs. The action alone sends shockwaves up Beca’s brain. Beca, who is no stranger to sex, realizes that she has never felt such strong arousal from just kissing before.

“Are we going to have sex?” Beca asks before she can help herself. She immediately regrets the question when it leaves her mouth. “Because I want to,” she says quickly before she loses it or before Chloe thinks that she’s having doubts. She isn’t. It’s just overwhelming, being so taken and consumed by a girl she barely knows.

Not for lack of trying, Beca supposes.

Of course, Beca has a stupid crush on Chloe Beale. It seemed like most people did, somehow. Chloe, popular by virtue of her wealth but also mysterious and aloof disposition, never seemed to be short on suitors.

A small measure of pride wells up in Beca before it is immediately replaced by a swooping tightening in her belly as Chloe’s teeth nip harshly at her neck. With the amount of suitors Chloe frequently wards off (and the smaller number that she seems to allow close to her), Beca assesses that it would also appear that Chloe didn’t need any encouraging at all. Much less direction.

Before Beca manages even a measly gasp or even a weak tug to Chloe’s hair, Chloe’s hands are already greedily grabbing at her hips, pushing and pulling at the fabric impatiently for a moment or so, getting a good grope in, before her fingers deftly find the button of Beca’s jeans.

Beca sucks in a breath.

It takes a moment, but Chloe pauses, lifting her head from her assault on Beca’s neck. Her eyes, dark and blown with desire, flicker with something nearly unrecognizable.

Beca’s eyes drift back down to Chloe’s lips in the ensuing silence.

“You’ve never had sex with a girl before, have you?” Chloe asks.

Beca blushes immediately, averting her eyes for a brief second before Chloe tilts her chin back up to catch her lips in a sweeping, full, wet kiss. It’s more romantic than it has any business being. Beca moans against her own will, lifting her hips up almost impatiently against Chloe’s still hand. She is so conscious of the ache between her legs. So conscious of how her previous encounters with men left her wanting and dissatisfied. Not all the time, but more often than not.

How she had always imagined what it would be like with a woman.

Chloe, maybe. Chloe, specifically. Chloe, who had occasionally seeped into her thoughts based on the occasional classes they shared together. Chloe, who ran around the track almost every morning, visible from Beca’s dorm window. Chloe, who had smiled at her just briefly from across the quad at the activities fair all those years ago and Beca hd simply just turned away—

Chloe, who is pressed against her, lips swollen from the force of their shared kisses.

Lips swollen from Beca.

“Beca?” Chloe asks, referring to Beca by her first name for the first time all evening.

“Yeah,” Beca rasps, hot against her newfound lover’s mouth.

It takes a few seconds for Beca to process sudden emptiness she feels—a lack of warmth, really—but she realizes belatedly that it is because Chloe is on her knees, pulling Beca’s jeans down her trembling legs. When Chloe looks up at her, fluttering long eyelashes, Beca feels an answering gush between her legs.

Fuck, Beca thinks with every last primal instinct coursing through her. Fuck me. She reaches out instinctively to thread her fingers through Chloe’s hair, swallowing at how natural it feels to tangle her hands in another girl’s hair. To enjoy it so much.

Chloe says nothing while she helps Beca step out of her jeans. The movements, though gentle and slow, do nothing to ease the growing tension gnawing at her stomach. She clenches again involuntarily and moans in response to her own actions causing Chloe to look up from where she still kneels in front of Beca.

For a moment, Beca feels powerful.

Then, Chloe’s fingertips gently hook into the elastic waistband of Beca’s underwear.

“Tell me how hard you want me to fuck you, Beca Mitchell,” Chloe murmurs, her voice permeating the thick fog of Beca’s brain. It almost stuns Beca into silence, but she realizes that what she wants even more than LA at that moment is Chloe’s fingers between her legs. Her tongue maybe. Lips. Beca’s hands through her hair, tangled all night.

The possibilities are seemingly endless.

“Hard,” she chokes out. “Just fuck me hard.”

Blue eyes flash with delight and the promise of everything to come.

- - x - -

She does come. Multiple times that night against the dresser. Then again when she invites Chloe back to her apartment. Against her own front door. In her bed, testing the strength of her boxspring mattress.

But none of that matters—what matters is how breathtaking Chloe looks when Beca unravels her. Breathless in her own way. Possessing Beca’s bed like she has nowhere else she’d rather be. The unmistakable tremble as Beca’s fingers sink into tight, wet heat. Choked off moans against Beca’s mouth.

And as Beca falls asleep, tired and spent, she thinks vaguely of the flash of red hair that fateful day at the activities fair. How she had pointedly avoided the pretty girl with blue eyes and red hair.

It feels like regret, chasing her into her dreams.

- - x - -

Beca isn’t one to dwell on things, however. She has no time for that kind of distraction, even if that distraction is the pleasant, fleeting sensation of Chloe’s lips pressing against the curve of her shoulder as she slips into a waking state.

There is something incredibly tender about the way Chloe’s fingers comb through her hair as she whispers a murmured goodbye into Beca’s ear. Her lips graze the sensitive skin on the shell of her ear, seeping into the peripheries of Beca’s dreaming state.

It feels like a dream, at least. All of it. Unattainable, super-senior Chloe Beale.

When Beca wakes up again, her bed is cold and empty and she’s pretty sure the aches coursing through her body have nothing to do with alcohol.

She peers blearily at her phone, unfortunately uncharged and nearly dead, and startles upon seeing that it is half past ten and she’s meant to meet a new student at eleven. She jolts out of bed and right into the shower, regrettably washing off all the remaining memories from the previous night. As she reaches between her own legs, she puffs out a heavy breath and tries not to think about how sure Chloe’s hands felt on her body the night before.

This new student is a special request from the Dean of Students himself, sent her way by her father. She had protested, barely, but the pretty monetary figure that had slid across her gaze had been enough to hold her attention.

“Just twice a week for the year. Both semesters. This student needs to pass,” her father emphasizes.

“Who is this student,” Beca demands, tucking the form into her jacket pocket. “Another entitled rich kid?”

Her father pinches his nose. “Look, I recommended you directly to Dean Sanders the moment I heard about this request. It’s from a special benefactor to the school and I know how much you need the money to go to L.A..”

“I wanted to go to L.A. three years ago.”

“Do you not want to go anymore?”

Beca bites her tongue to stop from saying anything else and looks away.

“I know you’re an adult, Becs, but I have your best interests in mind. I just want to see you try. If you do this, I’ll double what the benefactor pays you. I’ll match it and double it.”

Beca can hardly believe her ears. It’s a lot of money. Enough to be considered “safe”, even. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Beca nearly trips multiple times on the way to the diner—an odd background for a tutoring session—but she somehow makes it there with a minute to spare. She realizes she has no idea who she’s even meeting with and slowly slides into the closest booth, keeping an eye out for anybody who looks especially lost.

She sits uncertainly for at least fifteen minutes, downs an entire cup of coffee, and fends off awkward inquiries from the server before she pulls out her phone intent on calling her father and giving him a piece of her mind. On cue, she gets a text.

Unknown Hey, my dad gave me this number. You’re my tutor, right? Rebecca? lol

Beca groans.

Beca hey, yep i’m your tutor. I’m at Carl’s, just got a booth at the back

The door jingles somewhere in the background and Beca glances up to meet Chloe Beale’s gaze dead-on.

“You’re fucking joking,” Beca mutters.

Chloe, for her part, does not look pleased at all as she tosses her bag into the booth before sliding in across from Beca.

“Small world,” Chloe comments.

“You’re telling me.”

Chloe looks like she might say something else and Beca braces herself for the potential innuendo or lust-laden comment, but nothing comes. Instead, Chloe simply folds her hands and watches Beca intently, looking every bit like an innocent college student with a desire to pass her class.

Beca’s gaze flickers down to the neatly folded fingers.

When she looks back up, Chloe’s expression morphs into one that makes Beca swallow nervously.

“Are you nervous?” Chloe asks. “It’s just me,” she says in a tone that implies that she knows exactly what inappropriate thoughts are floating through Beca’s mind.

Beca ignores that, both the words and the tone Chloe uses, and pulls out her notebook and binder. “You’re in calculus two...then statistics next semester?” Chloe nods. “Those are usually first-year requirements, how are you getting away with this? Is this a pre-med degree?”

Chloe smiles—a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “When your father’s name is on the school’s med school building, you kind of get things handed to you no matter how much you want to fight it. I can only control so much.”

Beca scoffs before she can help herself. “Well, I don’t know if that’s entirely true. I think that there are things out of our control sometimes, but there are definitely things within our control.” Like leaving calculus and statistics until the end. Like sleeping together and wanting to do it again, but resisting.

Chloe gazes at her with renewed interest. “You’re a tutor, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“And my dad hired you.”

Beca shrugs. “Kind of...so I guess your dad will kill me in front of the entire student body if we don’t do this.” She clicks her pen. “Come on, show me your assignments.”

“I really don’t want to do what he wants,” Chloe says, fluttering her eyes at Beca. “Want to do something else instead?”

Beca scowls. “I’m your tutor, whether you like it or not.”

“Fuck that.”

Beca tries not to smile at that. Chloe has such a pleasant speaking voice and a generally pleasant expression on her face at all times that it isn’t hard to see why she’s probably one of the most well-liked people on campus. So well-liked that it is often overlooked that she’s going for a third round of her senior year.

Still, professionalism. Beca can do that, kind of. She tutored worse people in high school. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”

It is entirely the wrong thing to say. Chloe’s smile widens and she leans forward, her shoulders hunched like a predator just about to pounce. “That’s not what you were saying last night.”

“I...oh my God.” Beca purses her lips and looks around hurriedly before settling on the glass of water to her side. Grabbing it, she sips it delicately for a few long moments while avoiding Chloe’s gaze and quenching the sudden dryness in her throat.

The cool water sliding down her throat is a nice thing to focus on.

She’s not focusing on anything else. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe’s hands ghosting up her sides. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe making her hold on to her own headboard. Not the phantom sensation of Chloe’s lips against her thighs, leaving marks and hot, wet kisses.

Not the very real sensation from Chloe’s eyes boring a hole into her forehead, like she can see right into the recesses of Beca’s minds. Every last dark, lustful thought.

But the moment ends before Beca can really process everything, like how part of her wants to shove everything off the table so she can climb over and straddle Chloe’s lap.

Chloe sighs, opens her textbook, and points out the series of problems she has to complete for the week. “There,” she mutters.

Math—math, Beca can do. Calculus. Statistics.

Chloe, not so much.

(Even though she already did.)

/end chap. 1

read the rest: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[patrickcharlton-oshea-author]

Death Becomes Him: An Age of Steam and Sorcery novel

Chapter Three:

“Peter, time to get up! You'll miss your bus!”

Peter sat up and rubbed his eyes. Through the starburst that always came from pressing on your eyeballs too hard he could just see an error message: You have been logged out – idle for two hours.

“So that's what happens when you fall asleep in a game,” he muttered. Still, for as little sleep as he'd gotten it had been the most restful he'd had in a while. He resolved to log back in as soon as he got back home. Provided he survived the next eight hours.

Blearily he clambered out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. The school uniform wasn't particularly onerous. No tie and blazer here, just shorts and a collared t-shirt. Socks and runners completed the ensemble. He stopped to check himself in the mirrored door of the cupboard.  Hat, shirt, pants, socks, shoes. Check.

Down the hall echoed the sounds of breakfast preparation. Following them more from instinct than intent, Peter slumped into a chair at the table. His mother placed a bowl of cereal in front of him with a spoon in it.

“The most important meal of the day,” she said in a tone that sounded too happy to be real. “Now eat up, you've got ten minutes to be down at the stop. Your lunch is in your bag, which is by the door.”

Peter winced at the forced joviality in his mother's voice. He winced even harder when he bit into a spoonful of cereal. Granted that it was full of protein, carbohydrates and vitamins, but over the years legislators had contrived to force breakfast cereal companies to convert their product from something sugar filled and delicious into something with less taste and more texture than the cardboard box it came in. He chewed and swallowed as fast as he dared without losing a tooth.

As soon as he'd eaten as little as he could get away with he hopped up and poured the rest down the in-sink-blender-thing. He'd never caught the name of it, his parents just called it a “muncher”. Popping the bowl on the small pile of like crockery he hugged his mum and dashed out the door. A second later he dashed back in the door, grabbed his backpack and dashed out again. Seeing that it was on its way down already, rather than wait for the lift he pounded down a couple of flights of stairs to catch up, and took a moment to catch his breath as it descended the rest of the way. At the bottom he didn’t wait until the doors were fully open before dashing out through the lobby and over to the bus stop.

Just as he arrived, so too did the bus, arriving with a soft purr of electric motors. The doors swung inwards to allow him and the two other people who'd already been waiting to get on. Peter made his unsteady way to about the middle of the vehicle as it pulled away from the curb. The algorithm in control of the bus wasn't going to wait until he'd sat down and even accelerated harder as he swung into the seat, nearly pitching him headfirst into the lap of the boy in the window seat.

Peter gave him an apologetic grimace as he muttered “stupid machines”. The boy returned the grimace then proceeded to stare fixedly out the window. The rest of the blessedly short trip was spent in awkward silence.

The bus glided up to the stop outside the school and the doors opened with a slight hiss. The students shouldered and jostled to be the first off, as they had since time immemorial. As soon as their feet hit the pavement they fanned out into their cliques. The sporty ones ran inside, a football appearing as if by magic. The cool kids slouched along the fence, carefully cultivated indifference on their faces. The smarter crew babbled as they made their way into the grounds as they discussed topics from chess to chemistry to music. Peter ducked across the aisle to an empty seat to let his unwilling seatmate join them. He was happy to be last off.

Standing at the gate to the schoolyard Peter took a deep breath. “Best get it over with,” he mused. He began making his way through the school, the wide spaced buildings joined by covered walkways that thronged with students preparing for the day in their own way. Peter stepped around the groups, sometimes taking to the grass beside the walkways when there were too many people blocking the path. He arrived at the sheltered area where his class's lockers were. Every student was issued a locker and a combination lock that you were allowed to customise. Peter had gone with a classic: 36 left, 24 right, 36 left. He'd taken it from an old animated TV show he'd watched with his grandad when he was still alive. He still didn't know why Grandad had found it so funny, but that little yellow kid's locker combo had stuck in his mind.

Peter opened his locker door and dropped his bag into the bottom. Unzipping it, he began extracting his sports clothes, lunchbox and the tablet PC he was supposed to have used for homework last night instead of surfing the web and playing games. Games. His mind drifted back to the serenity of the garden he'd fallen asleep in. How photorealistic the textures had been. The gentle breeze and, now that he thought about it, the faint strains of background music. It all lived up to its name, it truly was a Garden of Tranquillity. Peter's arms dropped to his sides and his eyes closed as he recalled the scene.

CLANG! A big, meaty hand slammed Peter's locker closed, making him jump. Peter glared into the small piggish eyes of Billy Tomlinson. Or, as nobody ever called him to his face, Bully Tomlinson. Kid's insults aren't particularly inspired, but at least they're on point. Billy was the menace of Peter's grade. He'd managed to fail so comprehensively he'd been held back three times. He was head and shoulders taller than the next closest kid, and built like a brick outhouse. He was small minded and petty, but to balance that he had a very large opinion of himself. And right now his attention was on Peter.

“Scar-boy. Wha' choo doin'?” Billy had no volume control. His voice rebounded off the walls in the semi-enclosed space and drew all eyes. Billy rapped his knuckles on the now closed locker door. “Ah axed you a question, Scar-boy. Wha' choo doin' standin' dere lookin' at'cha locker for? You'se in me way.”

If the ground could have opened up and swallowed Peter right now he would have welcomed it. He kept his eyes averted and made no sudden moves. “Mjustgettingmystuff,” he mumbled. “SorryI'llgetoutofyourway.”

Billy placed one oversized paw in the centre of Peter's chest and thrust. Peter fell on his ass and slid across the concrete floor to fetch up against the lockers on the opposite wall. “Stay outta me way or you'se gonna get 'nother scar.” And with that Billy stomped off to fail another class.

Peter clambered up off the floor and quickly gathered his wits and belongings. Homeroom started soon and he couldn't miss the roll call. He waited until Billy was well out of sight though – best not to tempt fate.  Peter thanked his lucky stars that monster wasn't in any of his classes.

A few minutes later Peter was dropping himself into a plastic chair just as the bell began to ring. He slid his bag under the desk and waited for the homeroom teacher to arrive. He wished that he could access the internet while he waited, but schools were geo-locked to educational sites only. All he could see in his icon area was the school's crest that indicated that any net searches had to go through their portal. He doubted the Age's wiki was on their whitelist. He made do with taking some notes on things to check once he was unrestricted again.

He took his stylus out of his bag and tapped it on the desk. A note pad appeared in his vision and an overlay changed the grey cylinder of the stylus to a vibrant green fountain pen. It was an expensive skin for the device that his grandad had bought him for his last birthday before his grandad passed away. Peter made sure to use it every chance he got and even practiced his penmanship in Grandad's memory.

In virtually perfect copperplate he jotted down a short list of things to research, like skills and how they're acquired, item durability – since he'd already managed to tear his shirt and didn't want to wander about naked, and how to learn magic. After a moment he added crafting and materials. If his stuff was going to break, it might be a good idea to know how to make new gear.

He was just sitting back admiring his handiwork when the teacher logged in. Whilst it had been deemed that children benefited greatly from the group learning environment, a number of high profile court cases and the universal availability of the implant meant that it was better for all that the teachers were only present digitally. They were still able to present their classes normally, and were actually able to give any struggling students the attention they needed and teach the rest of the class simultaneously. Not to mention it meant that teachers could work from home and didn't have to deal with irate parents when their precious snowflake received a poor mark on a test.

The class greeted their homeroom teacher with a chorus of “good morning teacher” with varying levels of enthusiasm. Mr Wadsworth was a fairly decent teacher who taught woodworking and metal shop during the day. Peter was scheduled for that class just after lunch. After homeroom he had a double Maths and single English.

“Good morning class. I hope everyone had a fun weekend?”

The class responded with a round of “yeses”, “nos” and one whoop from John at the back of the room. Clearly he'd had an excellent weekend. Peter was instantly jealous.

As Mr Wadsworth began taking attendance Peter tapped the disk icon at the top of the notepad, saving the page for later. He dropped the stylus back into his bag and raised his hand as his name was called.

“Here,” he called out. The average response. The more studious, or brown-nosed, called out “present”. The cool kids, or at least those who thought they were cool, responded with “yup” or “yes”. It wasn't a large class, only about eighteen in all, and was soon done.

“Righto, off you go,” Mr Wadsworth said as he stood up. “I'll see some of you this afternoon, the rest of you have a nice day.” He stepped towards the door and disappeared in a puff of virtual wood shavings. It wasn't the usual disconnect animation, but he'd been teaching for a long time and earned a few concessions.

Peter grabbed his bag from under the desk and joined the flow out the door. The stream of students merged into the faster moving current of bodies on the path outside as he navigated his way to the Maths classrooms.

His journey took him past the school library, which made him smile. It's very existence was something of an anachronism, there being very little need for books anymore. Still, there were some kept here, as well as the traditional quiet research cubicles and group study tables. The space that once held shelf after shelf of hardcopy had been given over to lounges, beanbags and thick rugs with cushions. During lunch times this was his haven where he could read or study without being bothered. Billy and his ilk never entered these hallowed grounds.

The ever moving tide dragged him onwards to wash up on the shores of the Maths building. It was a two story antique, said to be the oldest on the grounds. Peeling white paint flecked the outer walls and a row of port racks sat opposite the classrooms themselves, waiting to accept the bags of the students. Inside, it had been modernised, eDesks and a holoprojector retrofitted into the aging infrastructure.

Slipping the tablet out of its sleeve in the bag, Peter slung the bag into the rack, then cursed himself and opened the bag and pulled out his stylus. Re-zipping the bag he turned and went inside to find a desk. He stopped at the first unoccupied seat and slid the tablet into the slot at the top end of the desk. The screen lit up and he slumped into the chair as the tablet synced with the classroom. It sometimes took a while for them to connect as the cases were bulky and hardened and didn't always sit neatly in their slot. They were also heavily encrypted. Obviously the school knew that students would love nothing more than to hack the devices and give themselves perfect marks, which was the primary reason they used them to record the students responses and progress instead of relying on the student's implant.

His tablet had only just finished its routine when Mr Luck pixelated into view. He didn't even offer any pleasantries and instead launched into a recap of everything they'd learned last week. Perfect. Peter let the educator's droning voice fade out as he called up a book he'd saved to the notepad and started reading. It wasn't uncommon for Mr Luck to spend the entire double saying the same thing multiple different ways. In part, it was his idiom. In part, it was because you needed to rotate some concepts through multiple axes to fit them inside the head of the more obtuse of his classmates. Either way, he had plenty of time to kill and his head was already starting to ache from lack of sleep.

He wasn't sure if he'd dozed or just been focussed on his book, but before he knew it the bell was ringing for the end of the class. Peter thumbed through the list of stuff on the tablet for the educating that had occurred around him. He was confident that he'd missed nothing and could knock over the questions at home. Tugging the tablet out of the slot he once more joined the flow of students out the door.

Once out the door, and having snagged his bag and dropped the tablet into it, he had to force his way opposed to the flow to get to his English class. It was held in a newer building up a slight rise which gave it a commanding view of the grounds. It boasted an outdoor area for dramatic curricula, and an indoor classroom that resembled a miniature amphitheatre. Mrs Easton, his teacher, knew how to extract the most from the facilities with such a voice and presence that it had been halfway through the first term before one of the other students had paused in the middle of an oral exam to exclaim “Mrs Easton, you're short!”

Indeed, now that Peter looked at her avatar as it pixelated in, she was just barely taller than the desk. Such was her command of the language it had taken weeks to realise this. Her passion was infectious; many who had never read a book in their life before starting her class were now devouring novels in their spare time. Ok, maybe not novels. See Spot Run might be a classic, but it's no Treasure Island or Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Still, it's a start.

This week they were reading and acting out parts from an Australian play called And the Big Men Fly. It didn't particularly interest Peter; he'd never liked football of any kind let alone an obscure style like the one this play was about. It’s one saving grace was that it wasn't primarily about the game itself but about the lies people tell to convince others to do their bidding and how those lies come back to us, not unlike the Australian boomerang to an untrained thrower.

It was impossible to sleep in Mrs Easton's class, and Peter spent most of his time reading the play instead of his book. He was actually sad when the bell rang for lunch.

Peter pulled his bag from the rack outside the class and jogged across the grass to where his locker resided. He scanned the crowd for danger and found it clear. Good. He quickly unlocked his locker and pulled out the lunchbox. After the disappointing breakfast he was feeling quite peckish, and so pulled the lid off the lunchbox in a hurry. Out fell two sandwiches, tomato and cheese and cucumber and lettuce, judging by the look of them. Suddenly not so hungry Peter dropped the offending “food” into a nearby trash can. He knew his mother was just trying to give him a healthy meal, but why did healthy have to taste like ass? Sod it. He could raid the cupboard when he got home.

Still wrapped up in his irritation, Peter slammed the door of his locker, jammed the lock together, turned and marched straight into a wall of meat. For the second time today Peter ended up on his butt staring up at Billy Tomlinson. Billy's face was rapidly turning red as what had just occurred filtered into his consciousness.

“So Scar-boy, you'se wanna go?” Billy slammed his palms into his chest in the age old gesture of manliness. “You'se tink you da king now?”

Peter scrambled off the floor, seeing red. “Shut it Bully. Just because your mum changed her name to some boy-band reject doesn't make you a rock star.” A niggling thought at the back of Peter's head raised the possibility that this was not the best course of action. It was swiftly drowned out by the rising ire. “The only reason you're still allowed to go to this school is because she's sleeping with the treasurer. Not even the principle. The. Treasurer.” Peter paused and blinked, suddenly unsure as to where to go from here.

Billy provided the answer. Peter's vision exploded into stars. The last thing he heard before darkness enveloped him was “You shoulda left me mam outta this. Scar-boy.”