AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay! So, you all probably hate me for not updating, right? NO! I know! You've forgotten who I am and have gone back a chapter to recap this story. Well I feel like an ass because I just realized that I had a third chapter out on another website and hadn't put it here. I meant to, I swear.

It was late.

Really late. Almost-out-of-time late. Three more minutes and he'd be a goner. This particular assignment was a simple one, but it had to be done quickly. Transport the bombs, kill the two guards. Simple. It wasn't the first mission Torrent had gone on, and it certainly wouldn't be the last- but he'd been distracted. While he should have been at this point, rewiring the van- he was still stuck struggling with the plastic explosives that were supposed to blast open the case where the bombs he was stealing were hidden.

-Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…-

"No! Augh!" Torrent yelled, dropping the plastic- along with his concentration. "Fuck, Cy- you can't be silent for three minutes?"

The coffee maker stopped its buzzing. Matt pulled himself up onto the couch Indian style, placing Shane's mauve thermos on the table and drinking out of his own. "That's more of an Ian thing."

"Ian?"

"Yes, Ian. You know, the fourth kid? Kinda small? Been hanging around with us for years now?"

"I know who Ian is, smartass- just assure me you're not resorting back to our given names."

"Finnish your game, Tori." he replied jokingly, somewhat answering the taller goth yet still speaking dismissively.

Torrent ignored his tone and picked back up his Xbox remote. He started up (finally) on the van, pressing the correct configuration of buttons on his controller to make sure the alarms didn't go off. "You know," he said keeping his eyes to the screen, "One of these days that sharp tongue of yours is going to get you in a world of trouble."

Matt finished his sip of coffee before bothering to add input. "Oh?" he asked simply.

With no real way to answer, Torrent rolled his eyes and resumed his high speed chase.

Two and a fourth minutes later, the entire screen burst into a flurry of reds, yellows and oranges- some black here and there, but mostly warm tones, exciting the adrenaline inside Torrent. Sure, he had lost, (probably due to the various distractions) and sure, he got blown up- but it all happened so… beautifully. Those flashes of bright colors were his favorite part of the game, especially the deepest reds, always guaranteeing pools of blood or the center of some major convolution.

"Why do you even play these things, Tor? They're so… mainstream."

"They're violent."

"Figures." Cyanide took another sip, flipping his needed-to-be-dyed-soon hair.

When Blasé saw the faint outline of where Henrietta's hair was flinging off to as she turned on her heel and searched the ground, pacing; he knew right away what kind of hour this was going to be. He made his way over to the floor in front of the gothic leader's bed and sat- watching her go back and forth a few times. Pierian finally noticed his presence and dove in to lean on her knees in front of the ridiculously tiny goth.

Neither broke the careful silence, though to an outsider it would seem as if they were daring the other to.

Had this been a day when he hadn't been summoned to stop her from freaking out (too much), Blasé would have flat out refused to have spoken up first. But Henrietta was only oh-so-obviously on the edge of some cliff or another, and Ian wisely started the conversation before Pierian's own stubbornness just started to frustrate herself even more. It was… safer this way. For everyone. Better to give into doing something normal than to have Pierian thrash out on the added stress of losing a miniature battle over some minor rebelliance to her unspoken word, which she would consider a threat to her crown.

Blasé shifted. "You texted?" It wasn't going to be that simply fearing for his own safety (or even Pierian's mental heath) was going to force Blasé to say more than as little as he could possibly get away with- no; that would stand against a good majority of Ian's beliefs, and he didn't have many left he even tried to hold on to.

None the less, the submissive gesture of his fact he had answered was deemed good enough for the female. After all, she wouldn't want him too talkative- that would defeat the purpose of specifically choosing someone she could rant at with no interruptions, someone who'd take it all in and maybe offer advise, or at the very least pretend to listen… the queen of the damned's other subjects would have done something to unknowingly make everything worse. Too violent, even during times of peace or crisis- she'd been meaning to work on that of them.

"Yeah- I did," she started, returning back to her miniature tour of the space between her dresser and blacklight-lamp, again and again and again, though now instead of the floor, she studied her gloved hands. Interruptions were aside- they were now getting down to business.

"I..." she started- then stopped to finish a few more laps. Blasé watched her, and procceded to chip away black nail paint off his fingers. Pierian glanced around the room, letting her eyes fall on random objects before she closed them and took a deep breath. When she opened back up, she fixed those eyes on her subject before herself, as he did her, and Henrietta let her anger rise to her chest.

"I Hate." she said, her lips on the verge of a frown and her eyebrows tilted in. "I hate.Everything."

Blasé felt somewhere in the back of his mind like he was being tested. It was an absurd emotion for the situation, but not unusal for one so usually guarded. "Alright then- elaborate."

Pierian sighed again, either out of relief that she had an alli in the world or frustration that she had to admit her moment of weakness, Blasé would never figure out. "I usually just feel... disapointed in the world, you know? Like sure, it's horrid, but still maluable. Lately I... I just fucking hate the whole concept of... exsistance! Not even asking 'what's the point?', because there is none! This is IT! I hate people! PEOPLE," she stressed, "Are whats wrong with humanity. And I hate everyone for it! Everyone! Well, not myself, that would be pointless, and not really you- but everyone else! Even those two imbisols who can't even see what the fucks right in front of them- even, and especially, that motherfucking whore!" Henrietta screamed the last part out of no where and the boy flinched. Their queen may have lost some weight, but she still had enough space in her for a hell of a large set of lungs.

The two imbisols would be Cyanide and Torrent, and the whore was obviously Kenny McCormick. Blasé knew, but still was a bit preocupied making sure she wasn't about to scream anymore than to come up with anything to say. After a dose of a few secconds worth of stern yet calming looks, Pierian seemed to pull herself back into her normal devious, excentric, and unpredictable self. "Whatever- I bet they get over that sexual frustration thing before too long." Henrietta shruged and fiddled around with things on her desk. Secretly, she was analysing Ian's reaction to the new thought that the others could be dealing with things far beyond Ian's emotional capability to understand. He stared back at her, his face a hint of surprise- a simple kind of surprise, like, 'Oh, I hadn't thought of it that way.' rather than a homophobic reaction. Although Blasé seemed to look over her words, he hadn't given them actual consideration. Pierian was just crazy- Blasé was used to dismissing her words silently by now. She didn't know Ian still didn't care, she just accepted his reaction to be analysed at a later date.

True to the nature of that which is Henrietta's own, the next thing she did was dive into a new mood- or rather, back into her old mood, and started back up yelling and pacing and breaking and saying things that would break spirts if heard, and Blasé sat. He sat through all of it; the breaking, the theories on why so-and-so was anoying or evil, or who-and-who was denser than what for one reason or another.

Everyone deals with things in their own way. Some people trash others behind their backs. Some people cry. Some people set fire to things. Some people feel the need to beat up someone weaker than them. Some people shrug it off as not such a big deal. Some people smile and pretend nothing happened, all the while pained on the inside.

If you are or were someone in the catagory of these two, you would do one of two things. Yell and break and curse and pace and soon after feel good enough to forget, or sit and wait things out.

And that is what they did.

Faint sounds of ticking clocks and fainter sounds of the lacross team outside were the only things to be heard in the abandoned classroom. On some days, there were no lacross noises. On most days, there was breathing and talking.

One of the two old art rooms was closed after the budget cuts two years ago, and was now used as a simple storage room for the other. Due to those same budget cuts, there was not much to fill the store room with, so it remained in its resemblance of an art class, which left room to walk and sit on boxes. The main door out to the hallway was locked, but the teachers' office conecting both rooms was not. The teachers' office used to be part office, part store room- and when the new space opened up, the art teacher and assistant pushed all their things forward, to be more private. Even when they were in their office, which that itself was seldom, it was not hard for the four to sneak past. They'd only been caught five times. Three times by the assistant, who just made sure they weren't stealing suplies and let them be, once by Craig who didn't even notice he walked right through the office on his way to complain over grades (he'd left the goths in seconds), and once by a lazy janator who didn't take his job seriously enough to care whether the kids were in the hallways or ten feet inward. The Principals over the years had grown wise to the goths' old hangout behind the school gym, but none had yet to find them here. The goth kids sometimes worried in the back of their minds that the Principal would offer a raise to any Janitor that could oprehend the "trouble makers" (he took his job with a seriousness unfathomable), and that the Janitor who once found them would turn them in. But either the Principal had never considered this method, or the Janitor was not bright enough to put two and two together. No one knew for sure. But this- was their safehaven. Their kingdom, none the less.

Pierian's accustomed throne was on top of the old teacher desk- most likely due to her fantasy that she ruled and the rest were her loyalists. Blasé sat at an open desk just a touch off center. Cyanide used to lounge against the box of exactoknives before it was one day found to be missing (opened to replace the old ones in the true art room). Now he sits by the scisors. Torrent's place is atop a box that's height was to his liking, not bothering to know what it contained.

There are acustomed spots for anyone in any group. People tend to know things such as that the third desk to the left in English was Damien's, and Damien's alone, for example. When there are only four places to check, it's hard not to notice when half your group is missing.

"Where's the guys?" Only silence followed the question. Pierian huffed and set down her coffee (one part coffee, two parts expresso, one half shot hazelnut and half the regular amount of 2% milk- the "usual") in the most regal manor she could manage while irritated. "Those boys..." she rolled her eyes. Ian did his best to apear sympathetic for Henrietta's sake. He failed. This delehma was not a new one. It seemed to him that for the past year or so that they'd been arguing more often, and it was all getting a bit boring.

Footsteps. At first they were faint and mistaken for the lacross team. After two years your first reactions are no longer fears of getting caught. When the stamps got louder Pierian's face widened momentarily with just the smallest gesture of recognition. She closed her eyes and picked back up her coffee. It was easy now to distinguish these steps from any others. One set of boots mashed their masses into the ground clankily with every step, and the other's noise was completely stealthed. Together, it meant the rest of the group finally showed up.

Blasé pointedly busied himself with things in his reach- not wanting to be a part of what might come next.

"Nice of you both to join us, Torrent- Cyanide." Henrietta's eyes were still closed in her callings, but she opened them up at the mention of the two names. She set down her thermos and looked sternly to their faces for answers.

Torrent hopped up on his seat. "He wanted a cigarette break- we all agreed smoking in here would cause too much alarm, I just waited for him."

Matt had carried on his jacket a smell of tobacco- evidence to support their alibi. Henrietta smirked knowingly enough to be a devious smile.

"I kept our being late to under five minutes." Pointed out Matt. The weirdest things set off Henrietta. To make all right with the world, you had to be both under five minutes late (five being her favorite number) and with someone. As long as Cyanide was with Torrent, Pierian never seemed angered when they came in late. Ian was late once. By two minutes. He was forced to sit on top of the teacher's desk next to Henrietta, a suitible punishment she thought for Ian who didn't like attention. Sometimes the two tallest males wondered if one of them were with Blasé, would it have made a difference. Unlikely... Henrietta always seemed more spontanious and carefree when Shane and Matt were grouped together for something. Unsetting, maybe- convinent? Yes.

"Adorable." She said flatly- "Moving on!" Pierian uncrossed her legs and swirled around behind her to the green tinted blackboard. She held in her hand yellow chalk unseen before now. On the board, she wrote in her large scratchy-yet-at-the-same-time-loopy handwritting 'MISSION CODENAME: CAPTURE THE FLAG- BLACK V.S ORANGE'.

"...Excuse me?" Torrent raised his hand.

Serious faced, Henrietta nodded sharply and called "Yes, Sargent Irascible Beast?"

Torrent knew better than to directly question her sanity. "What is it exactly we're doing?"

"You will adress me as Comander Leader, is that clear?" She asked/comanded loudly.

He played along. "Crystal, Comander." He almost laughed but caught himself- and saluted.

"Good. What we are doing," She looked around to her three new soldiers. They would need training... "Is planing our first kidnapping. Ideas?"

More silence.

"Our what?" Cyanide straitened his back against the boxes. Hastilly, he added in a 'Comander'.

Henrietta sighed as if she had explained her inner minds workings five times before already. "Mission 'Capture the flag: Black v.s Orange'. What, the title doesn't say it all?"

Her 'army' looked at eachother. Torrent pulled himself off his box and moved up closer, near Blasé. He whispered, "Did she say anything about this when we were out back?" A shake of the head answered him.

Pierian still had no answer. Some would take that as a no- Pierian took it as a need for an answer. "Does the title not say it all?"

"No."

"No."

"...not really."

Henrietta rolled her eyes and comanded everyone face the back wall until she was done fixing their mission title. It was days like these that the group wondered why they put up with her, but it was always aparent that it was her that kept them together. Blasé wouldn't ever have found the need to show up or remain in the goth group if not threatened by Pierian, and the routene unpredictablitiy livened up their lives and gave Cyanide and Torrent something to laugh over in secret.

The three shared a spacy few moments listening to the echos of chalk to a board, clock tics, and the team out the window. "Sargent Schizoid Comrade, you turn first. Does this explain our mission well enough now?"

Blasé turned. "uh... yeaahhhh.... Comander Leader."

"Good. You both may turn now too."

Shane and Matt turned. And boy, did they not expect what was written from the clues of the last mission title. The entire board, save seven or so inches up from the bottom was covered in the new wording- "MISSION CODENAME: THE MISSION WHERE SARGENTS IRASCIBLE BEAST AND LURID SHADOWER WAIT TO FIND DEAD SLASH KILL KENNY MCCORMICK AND BRING HIM BACK, BLINDFOLDED, TO THE ART ROOM WHILE COMANDER LEADER INTERAGATES THE PRISONER AND SARGENT SCHIZOID COMRAD DOES SOMETHING MERCINARY-LIKE TO SEEM LIKE WE ARE PROFESIONALS THAT KNOW WHAT WE ARE DOING. PROCEDURE: SEE CODENAME."

"Qustions?"

Both Torrent and Cyanide raised their hands. Blasé buried his head in his.

"No? Good. It was nice planing this mission with you guys. Especially you, Torrent- your knowledge of videogames came in quite handy during the home stretch there." Pierian looked at her thermos and decided without testing it that the coffee had run cold by now. "Get some sleep men- we set out at precisely after the last bell tomorrow."