By Blood Connected

By Blood Connected
A fanfiction by Vir M.
Chapter 5
“Dodgeball"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day after my first two hours in hell was a B Block day.

What this meant was that I’d have to endure not two, but THREE hours in Aeneid’s glowering company. Oh, joy, I could hardly wait.

I stopped by the library that morning to break the news of my sessions to Ms. Saxen, and felt a knife shoot through my heart when I saw her disappointed face.

//Damn that Aeneid.\ I thought darkly as I stalked off. //I just wish he’d back the fuck off.\

The day passed without incident. Much to my dismay, the moment Ami and I sat down with Sarita and co. for lunch on the grounds, I was bombarded with questions: What was his office like? What did he make you do as punishment? Was he a good-looking up close as from afar? I excused myself early and took shelter in the library. I had been assigned an English essay on Shakespeare the day before, and got to work on that for a good while during the remainder of lunch.

Ami joined me at the start of study hall, and, since Sarita’s group had decided to stay outside where they had eaten, I was spared more questions. I had a pleasant surprise though: Karen had decided to accompany Ami and got to join us. Ami and I spent the period gently coaxing her out of her shell, and my hypothesis was proved correct: Karen and I got along very nicely indeed.

At study hall’s end, Ami and I split away from Karen to hurry off to history.

“Lie low today, okay?” Ami pleaded. “You already have eight weeks worth of sessions, you don’t need anymore!”

Aeneid was sitting at his desk as we walked in, neon head bent over a sheaf of papers, pointedly ignoring us. Sarita was sitting in the usual spot; she waved us over as we entered.

“Did you hear?” Sarita whispered to us as we sat down. “There was another killing in Canary; ‘The Slasher’, they’re calling him!” She didn’t look at all alarmed, however, only excited to have a new piece of gossip to dissect. “He struck only sixty miles from town this time!” She was about to continue when the bell rang, efficiently silencing her.

“Class, textbooks have been issued. Come get them.” Aeneid was standing over several large boxes placed beneath the blackboard, waiting for us to take a book. The class, almost in unison, stood and walked down the steps to receive them is silence, forming a line at the boxes. Ami, Sarita and I got in near the end. I looked up at Aeneid, who was standing by the boxes, and realized he was staring at me.

Or, more specifically, my legs.

I began to blush furiously. A teacher, for Christ’ sake! Staring at my legs! Funny though, he doesn’t look at all pleased.

When I made it to the front and bent to pick a book, he addressed me:

“Young lady...” I looked him in the eye as I straightened my back, book in hand.

“Yes, Mr. Aeneid?” His face darkened.

“That’s five.”

Drat. What is that, I thought, two and a half months with this guy now? Geez, does he ever lighten up? Instead of arguing, I simply said: “Yes, sir.” He pinned me with that stare and began again, handsome features set in a glower.

“Your skirt is too short, young lady.” I looked down at my pale, bare legs as I contemplated his words, then looked back up at him.

“I like my skirt.” He glared.

“Get a longer one by tomorrow or I’ll issue you another session.” My temper flared.

“Be my guest!” I growled quietly, glaring up at him from under my bangs in what I hoped looked like a menacing posture. The class had gone silent.

“That’s six.”He said. I turned around, marched through my shocked classmates, and took my seat once more.

~~~

The rest of the period passed quickly; I sat there and fumed at A) myself for losing control and letting him get to me, and B) Aeneid for being what I believed to be a domineering, sexist PIG. I also noticed, despite my fuming and much to my dismay, that he was an excellent and thorough teacher.

//So what if I have a short skirt?\ I reasoned. //No need to get worked up about it; most of the girls here wear ‘em shorter than I do!\

When the bell rang, Aeneid strode quickly out the door, beating all the students. Sarita, Ami and I rose, and once again I was assailed by comments:

“You need anger management, Jira, this is getting out of hand–“

“Go girl, another four weeks with that HOTTIE! What is that, like, twelve in all?–“

“Would you two just SHUT UP?!” I yelled, wheeling around to face them in the middle of the hallway. They both stood there, open-mouthed.

“I mean REALLY–“ I bellowed “–I have enough stress as it is without your constant NAGGING!” I stormed down the hallway away from them, temper rising hot and heady in my skull.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luckily for me (but not so much to all the innocent bystanders) my next class was P.E., and even luckier still– we were playing dodge ball. I opened my gym locker hurriedly and stripped down, then pulled on my skimpy little uniform of tennis whites. I slammed the small door shut with a crash, then headed out onto the court.

Coach Williams was a hulking, muscular woman who looked like she was on steroids. However, she was actually quite nice behind the rough exterior, and I was rather fond of her. She waved as she set out foam balls on the half-court line of the gym, and I shouted a greeting. I saw Ami out of the corner of my eye, looking my way but not approaching.

//Good.\ I thought. //That’ll teach her.\

“Girls!” Coach Williams called. “Line up so I can divide you into teams for dodge ball. No pushing, now!” We obediently formed a line as she numbered us off. Ami had been numbered a one, as had I, and we walked over to our end of the court in silence. She stood about three feet away from me, hesitant to make contact, and I ignored her.

//So what if I’m acting like a bitch?\ I thought. //She deserves it.\ Why she deserved it, however, the more rational side of me couldn’t say.

“Jira...?” I jumped. Ami was standing at my elbow, her eyes red. Has she been crying? I wondered. “I’m sorry, Jira, I know I’m a nag, but...” I sighed as she looked away, her lower lip trembling slightly. I felt my (deeply buried) sensitive side loom up out of my subconscious to take control.

“It’s okay.” She brightened considerably at this.

“Really?!” She squealed, throwing me into a bear hug.

“Yeah.” I said, returning the embrace. In truth, I was still pissed, but being mad at my best friend wouldn’t do me any good, so I did my best to forget about it. I needed her support.

“Get ready!” Coach was bellowing from the sidelines. We did as told: one hand touched the wall, feet set, ready to run for the balls in the center of the court. Then the whistle blew.

>TWEEEEEEET!<

We exploded from our positions, dashing towards the red spheres. My field of vision narrowed: the only thing in my world was that red ball. I grabbed one and hurled it into the opposing team’s ranks, hitting one unfortunate girl on the thigh: she went down with a squeal then limped off the court, shooting me a dirty look.

I love dodge ball. I always have and I always will. It acts as a stress reliever; all pounding feet, flinging arms, sweat beading in every pore. The only problem is that my opponents usually seemed to wind up nursing bruises the size of dinner plates... but I digress.

I continued to pummel the other team with my angry throws, then eventually dropped a ball after touching it and was eliminated. Coach looked at me as I was leaning against the wall of the gym, panting and winded, and remarked:

“Top form, as always.” I flashed a grin at her.

“This is the only exercise I get. Might as well make the most of it.” She laughed and went back to reffing the game.

By the time the dismissal bell rang, I was drenched in sweat. I’ll grab a quick shower before my session. I decided. I told Ami to go on without me; she had a piano lesson to attend and I didn’t want her to be late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry, then stepped into my under-things and school-uniform.
I pulled my hair back into its customary ponytail, then shook it out around my shoulders impatiently so it could dry. I sat on one of the benches, laced up my shoes, grabbed my bag and left. My wet hair made me look like a drowned rat, and I was rather enjoying the effect; playing with its few layers and adjusting it whenever I came into contact with any reflective surfaces.
~`~`~`~`~`~`~
I entered Aeneid’s office without knocking, and found him sitting behind his desk, staring at the door. He sat up straighter when I entered, then glared.

“You’re late.” He said frostily. I shrugged.

“I had P.E. and needed a shower.” His quirked an eyebrow.

“You needed a shower?” His voice was incredulous.

“Yeah, so what?” I said, annoyed.

“After playing DODGE BALL?” He was clearly confused as to how I could need a shower over so non-athletic of a game.

“How’d you know we were playing dodge ball?” I asked suspiciously. “I’ll have you know I get really worked up when I play that game; people get hurt.” His expression shifted towards one of amusement.

“I’ll bet they do.” I blushed then, I couldn’t help it; that stare was piercing.

“Yeah, well...” I mumbled. “I’ve been stressed lately.”

He sighed, then said:

“I don’t have any chores for you, so get started on your homework. You can work at my desk for the time being.” He had indeed cleared off half of it to make room. I walked over and began to pull papers and reference books from my bag and spread them on the surface, getting ready to finish my English paper.

English was one of my weaker areas of study, and I was halfway through the editing process and about ready to give up on it about an hour into the session. I slung the paper, covered in red corrections, onto the table in disgust and folded my arms over my chest. I then abruptly leaned forward, running my hands through my hair as I braced my forehead on the cool tabletop. I heard Aeneid shift.

“What’s wrong?”

“I hate English.” I whined. “I can’t edit this properly; I’ve read it too many times.” I sat back in my chair. “I was gonna get Ami to do it, but....” I looked up at him and shrugged. He was regarding me with another of his amused expressions.

“Give it here.” I just sat there, clueless.

“I’ll edit it for you.” He clarified. I wordlessly handed him the paper, wondering why in the world his demeanor had suddenly become so much more friendly. The only sound in the room for some time was the scratching of his pen on my paper as he made numerous corrections to the text.

“You’re reasoning and points of logic are excellent, but your sentence structure is atrocious. And you need to work on your grammar. Badly.” I moaned.

“Is it that bad?” I asked.

“Yes.” he answered. “It is that bad.” He handed back the paper, then glanced at his watch.

“I believe we’re out of time.” He said softly. “You may go.”

“Thanks, Aeneid.” I said offhandedly, gathering my things and hurriedly stuffing them into my bag.

“That’s seven.” He remarked. “The name again.”

“Shit.” I said. Two more weeks....

“And that would be eight. For that curse.” His face was drawn. “We’re well past Christmas at this point.” I calculated in my head, found that he was right, and felt my shoulders slump miserably.

“I know.” I said. “At least this year I won’t be spending Christmas alone.” His eyes snapped open more widely than usual at that.

“Alone?” He asked. I nodded.

“I told you the first day. My parents are missionaries;– remember?-- they’re in Africa.” His face darkened.

“You have no family here?” I nodded glumly.

“The only one’s I have in America are my aunt and uncle, and they only come down during the summer.” I explained. “They don’t like my mom and dad much, so therefore I’m not all that likeable as well.” His face was set into a stony stare.

“You live alone?” He asked. “Not in the dorms, correct?” I affirmed his question with a shrug.

“Sometimes I like the solitude.” He nodded.

“I can relate.”

We stared at each other for some time, then with a jolt I realized he looked sad– VERY sad. Before I could ask what was wrong he broke our gaze.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jira.” I didn’t answer him, it wouldn’t have meant anything. I simply walked out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I reached home, it was almost completely dark. Darkness had begun to fall earlier and earlier as autumn faded into winter, and the temperature reflected the transition. The wind had picked up into a cold, biting force that made my teeth chatter in my skull. My numb fingers trembled as I fumbled with the lock; I was eager for the blessed warmth of the indoors. I had shut the door behind me when I realized I had left the newspaper on the driveway, so I had to dash back out and grab the thing with achingly stiff and cold limbs. When I had safely re-entered the house, I looked at the front headline:

“THIRD VICTIM OF ‘THE SLASHER’ FOUND ON OUTSKIRTS OF TOWN, POLICE HAVE NO LEADS!”

I cursed; was no place safe anymore? The maniac was now in OUR town!

The article ran over the facts: scales and feather, body in several pieces, etc. The woman killed– a twenty year old girl working at a family bakery– had been heading for her country home when for some reason she had abandoned her vehicle. Her body was found about one hundred yards away, tri-sected and bloody, head and legs disconnected from her torso. The police had issued a statement that no one was to go out alone after dark, and if travel by night was essential, then to do it in large groups. I gulped at the group thing: with night falling so early nowadays, my trips home from my sessions were fringing on the twilight, if not overlapping into total darkness.

But I’d worry about that later. Right now, I had more important things to worry about... like correcting an English essay. I pulled open my bag and began to take out my hastily-stuffed-in papers when I noticed something out of place.

A large, leather bound book had been mixed in with my things. It had no title on the cover, but when I opened it, the title page bore four words, handwritten in a sharp, flowing script. It read:

"The Legend of Sparda"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR TIME:
Aaaaaand.... another chapter!!!! Yay!!!!! I despise this chapter, just to let you know.

I’m enjoying composing dialogue for Vergil though.... the whole skirt-thing seems appropriate; he seems like the type who’s more into conservative women.... If you read the second volume of the DMC manga (yes, there is one) He gets onto a girl named Alice (who was dressed like a slut) for “selling your soul to grow up too fast, like so many other girls wanting to be painted whores.” I figured short skirts on women would bug him ^___^

And also, the whole “Redgrave” thing is a reference to the DMC Novel (yeah, there’s one of those too). ‘Tony Redgrave’ is Dante’s alias. ‘Gilver’ is Vergil’s (flopped syllables). His choice of the name will be covered at a later date.

I’ve also decided that Jira’s name is the dumbest thing ever. I mean, it fits the story and all (you’ll see why later) but I still wouldn’t name my kid that. I mean it may fit SOME people, but not me or my tastes. I’m going to keep the name for her though; it seems to suit her nicely...PLEASE PEOPLE, CRITIQUES ARE NEEDED!!!!!!!!

Vergil belongs to Capcom...

Jira and Co. Belong to Vir M.