Level One: Daily Life
Broken plaster. Cracking foundation. Busted-out windows and an assortment of ratty furniture taken from sidewalks and empty lots all over town. A surprisingly well-built bookshelf, and a few fold-out tables turned into a makeshift kitchen with the addition of a hot plate, a rice cooker, an electric griddle, and a mini-fridge. A generator with more power strips plugged into it than was probably safe.
A room on the bottom floor of an abandoned building in the outskirts of Canterlot, which, to be fair, was only a room by virtue of four walls, a door, and a ceiling, strewn about with debris that looked like someone had tried to clear it, and a bunch of support pillars somehow standing the tests of time and abuse.
This was the, for lack of a better term, “headquarters” of a group of delinquents from Canterlot High School who had made it their home away from home. If one looked hard enough, there was even another corner of the hollowed-out office building floor with a bunch of mattresses, and a ratty-ass wardrobe with the corners of a few sheets and blankets sticking out. Usually, one would expect such a derelict mess to be empty, quiet, some remnant of a life past or the impromptu set of a horror movie.
Yet today, like most days, it was full of a surprising amount of activity, and life. A trio of boys from seemingly all walks of life had casually strewn themselves about the old furniture, chatting amicably while their fourth puttered about in the “kitchen”.
“Ey, Dusty, what’s the holdup? Whatever happened to ‘thirty minutes or less’?” called one boy from the couch.
Dust Devil, or ‘Dusty’ to basically everyone, raised a silent middle finger, not bothering to remove the cheap cigarette from his mouth while his other hand dug at a quesadilla whose cheese had well melted to the griddle. He had dirt-brown hair and straw-gold skin, and despite his name, he was a clean and well-kept sort, if a bit skinny. Sporting a simple t-shirt and jeans combo with no special designs or snappy catch phrases to speak of, the standouts of his attire were the shoulder and kneepads he wore, seemingly without cause. Of course, if one were to take a look at his shoes (which usually only happened for a brief moment at high velocity should he become angry with you), they would notice skate wheels folded into the bottom and sides. The kind of sneakers that, with a click, became roller skates.
The youth on the couch returned the middle finger, and went back to reading the shabby remains of an old novel in his lap, turning the page with a moss-green hand. His hair was an even darker shade of green, though cut short and mostly hidden beneath an old army cadet hat his father had left him. Stretched out and taking up as much room on the couch against the far wall as he damn well pleased, Rubble Maker divided his attention between the beaten-up old book, the smell of food from across the room, and the other occupants. Rubble’s attire, day in and day out, consisted mainly of hand-me-down or salvage store dark green military fatigues, a-shirts, combat boots a size too big, and the aforementioned hat. He was obviously the muscle-y one of the group, but his build was less like a gym rat’s and more like someone who just liked fighting.
A couple of barely-stifled laughs emanated from the space between couch and kitchen, where the last two boys were simply watching the exchange, amused. A magazine spread out between them, half on one lap and half on the other, though they were barely glancing at it. “A good ol’ ‘Fuck You’, huh? Tell me, Dusty, is that in the quesadilla or the sodas?” Quipped the taller of the two; a long-haired boy in a white hoodie and torn jeans named Deep Treble. Small silver hoops dangled from his ears, and shook as he laughed. He had a wide, easy smile, and boy-band good looks that were more for getting into trouble than anything else. Sporting a great mane of shaggy dark-blue hair (which he’d developed the unconscious habit of tucking behind his ear every few minutes) over lime-green skin, Treble would have stood out the most from the group, if not for the boy sitting next to him.
Spooky Bones was the smallest of the group, yet somehow the scariest. Not because he was mean, or violent. On the contrary, he tried relatively hard to be a social kid. No, it was his ragged, gaunt looks and strange choice of attire that kept people away (and his hobbies, but that was another matter entirely). He had sunken eyes, mostly from lack of sleep, though one could easily confuse his frail appearance for one of an abused kid. Not that he was. He was a relatively happy kid with a decent home life. He just had a tendency not to take care of himself, which his friends had taken upon themselves to rectify. His clothes were something out of a period piece, a surprisingly new-looking newsie hat and vest over a button down shirt and slacks. He even wore proper shoes. Unfortunately, given his pale gray hair, and his black-and-white patterned skin, his outfit made him look less like a newsboy out of the twenties and more like a ghost.
“I hope it’s in the soda,” Bones remarked, his voice slightly gaunt and hollow to match his wraith-like appearance. “I’m not in the mood for a Fuckadilla.”
There was a beat of silence as the other three looked at him, then burst out laughing. Even Dusty, usually a calm and collect sort, had trouble holding his spatula. “Oh, oh my god. We need like a menu board or something so I can write that down. We’d make a fucking fortune selling Fuckadillas.”
There was a ‘plop’ as Rubble’s book hit the floor. “Dude, I’ll take three! No, wait, wait, can you make mine with extra fuck? I’m super in the mood for some fuck right now!”
The magazine in Treble’s lap crinkled as he gripped in tight, laughing to hard to notice. “Oh, so… so you want… some fuck?” he gasped out between laughing and trying to breathe.
This only made the whole group laugh even harder, Treble and Bones falling to the floor like idiots while Rubble kicked his legs against the arm of the couch. Which, truth be told, probably could have done without.
Dusty was holding himself up with one hand on the table, trying to get the food off the griddle before it burned. “Dude, you’re gonna make me burn lunch!”
“Oh no,” giggled Bones, his laugh much quieter, though no less genuine, than his friends’. “Don’t burn the fucks, we only have so many to give!” His voice rose in pitch as he laughed at his own joke.
Soon the only sounds from the room were the laughing of idiot boys, and food being dropped unceremoniously on paper plates. After a few moments, the raucous howling died down, and Dusty cleared his throat. “Alright, assholes, food’s ready. You know where the sodas are. And no, Rubble, I’m not bringing you your food, you can put on your big girl panties and walk ten feet.”
“But moooooooooooooooooooooooom,” whined Rubble. He rolled himself off the couch, despite his protests, and trudged over to the kitchen in mock defeat. As if to rub it in, Dusty took Treble and Bones their food, and even brought them sodas. Of course, they hadn’t quite picked themselves off the ground yet.
Treble sat up and leaned against the front of the recliner he’d been sitting on (a chair, basically, since it didn’t recline anymore. Rubble was working on it.). Pulling his plate into his lap with one hand, and cracking the soda open with the other, he turned to Rubble, who had just sat down with his meal. “So hoss, what’s the book?”
The green brute picked up the almost-forgotten novel off the ground, looking at the cover to remind himself of the title. “The Portrait of Dorian Grey,” he answered. “Bones wanted me to read it.”
“How you likin’ it?” Bones asked, his mouth half full of food.
“It’s alright. Main character’s kind of a dick.” Rubble tossed the book to the other half of the couch, where it sat for half a second before Dusty picked it up to make room for himself.
“Yeah, we had to read that in English last year. I don’t remember a lot of it,” mused Dusty, taking a sip of something from a can. He wasn’t paying attention to what he grabbed, and thus, spat it back out almost instantly. “Oh, god, cream soda. Why?!” He offered his can up to Rubble, who traded him an unopened cola.
“Hey, I like cream soda,” grumbled Treble.
“Good for you, you’re stupid.”
“Speaking of class,” Bones interrupted, as Treble opened his mouth to retort. “Anything happen today?”
The boys looked between each other, knowing full well what ‘anything’ their friend was talking about. The group had taken it upon themselves to be Canterlot’s first line of defense against ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, with mixed results. “Not really, actually,” Rubble mused. “No. I mean, besides the girls using those superpowers of theirs to do pretty much everything, class today was actually normal.”
Dusty rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, completely ignoring the fact that we almost get run down by that loudmouthed rainbow speed demon between every class, life is peachy-keen.”
“Well, keep an eye out,” Spooky warned. “It’s almost the Fall Formal again, and I’m willing to bet dollars to Fuckadillas someone’s gonna lose their shit again. And I really don’t want to spend my afternoons filling in a crater all November, like last year.”
Treble raised an eyebrow, the remnants of his meal halfway to his mouth. “What makes you think something’s gonna happen this year? I mean, just cause it did at last year’s Fall Formal-”
“-and the Battle of the Bands,” Rubble groaned, “and the Friendship Games, and at summer camp, and at the Spring Fling-”
“That was an accident!” Dusty barked. “How the hell was I supposed to know a fuckin’ drama club mask would turn the poor schmuck who wore it into some kinda over-acted vigilante?!”
Bones rolled his eyes. “How about the part where I told you it was magic we had no idea what it did, so you should probably not. Put it. On?!”
Dusty scoffed. “Psh. Whatever. Nobody got hurt, right?”
Rubble elbowed him. “Yeah, I only broke my leg trying to climb back down from that scaffolding, you ass.”
Dusty grinned, giving his friend the side-eye. “Like I said, nobody important got hurt, right?” Rubble grabbed a couch cushion and smacked Dusty in the stomach. The boy dropped his soda with a loud “Oof,” cola making a small puddle on the concrete floor. He turned and dove at Rubble.
Treble rolled his eyes and stood up, walking to the kitchen. He dropped his paper plate in a nearby trash can, and started rummaging through a nightstand they used for kitchen storage. Digging out a lone kitchen towel, he barked, “Ey! Who’s turn is it to do laundry? This is the last clean towel!”
“Bones,” Dusty and Rubble chorused, not looking up from their spat.
“Wait, wasn’t it...” Spooky trailed off, then did some mental math. “Dammit. Alright, where’s the bag?”
Treble gestured to a white trash bag full of towels and other linen near the door, as he dirtied the last towel cleaning up the spilled soda. “We should probably also get some tv trays or something.”
“We tried that,” said Rubble, sitting on Dusty’s back, holding his face into the couch with one hand. “I may or may not have broken it over the head of some guy trying to steal our mini-fridge.”
“Smm wwww grt r bnsh,” Dusty grumbled, his face mooshed into the dirty furniture.
Rubble raised an eyebrow at his captor, then relinquished him, moving into Dusty’s old seat. “What?”
Dusty coughed. “So we get a bunch. That’s what we did with the folding tables, and we still have a few.”
Treble shrugged, walking the filthy rag to the laundry. He then tied up the bag, picked it up, and heaved it at Bones, who caught it with a grunt. “I’ll swing by Samaritan’s on Saturday, I get payed tomorrow,” Treble remarked.
“Shouldn’t Rubble buy them this time?” Bones asked, tossing the bag out of his lap. “He did break the last one.”
“Oh, sure. And we still have a fridge because of it,” Rubble grunted.
“Yes, and Treble paid for that, too.”
“OK, OK.”
==========================
The bell at CHS was the sound of mixed emotions. Sometimes it signaled the glorious end of the day, sometimes it was just a reminder that you were late to class. No, though, it was the signal to go to lunch. Rubble grunted hiw way through stuffing his Chemistry books into his bag, his lab partner giving him maybe a few more inches of space than was necessary. While not completely undeserved, Rubble’s reputation as a ‘fighty’ kid was a bit exaggerated. Well, at least when it came to other students. He did plenty of fighting when it came to bumping back the things that went bump in the night. Or day. Or whenever was most likely to be inconvenient for him. The last few weeks had been relatively quiet, however, which in Rubble’s mind led more credence to Spooky’s prophecy that something was gonna go down at the Formal. If only to balance their karmic scales.
This didn’t stop the military enthusiast from looking around corners while he walked, ready to spring on anything inhuman with much gusto and fists a-flyin’. It greatly distressed him when he couldn’t actually punch the monsters, though.
However, he made it to the cafeteria without incident, though not without a few distressed glances and some scampering of kids giving him room to walk. There was a booth in the corner of the cafeteria that he and his group frequented, and, like most days, it was empty today, Rubble being the first one there. He unceremoniously tossed his bag (a dark green duffel, natch) under the table, and sat down hard on the cheap leather seat. He had only gotten halfway through unzipping his bag to fish out his lunch when a familiar voice called to him from above the table.
“Sup loser, how’s tricks?” Dusty said through his smirk, setting his much lighter backpack on the seat opposite his friend’s, his butt soon following.
Rubble gave his trademark grunt, digging out an old metal lunchbox and dropping it with a clang on the table. “Nothin’ doin’. Chemistry was boring as usual, since we’re just doing textbook work till our regular teacher comes back. I think the sub is scared we’ll blow something up. At least Micro Chip is halfway decent at the schoolwork thing, though I’m pretty sure he can’t tell the difference between me asking him a question or threatening his dog.”
“There’s a difference?” Dusty quipped, his question punctuated by the sound of his own bag unzipping. He pulled out a plastic grocery bag full of food, a little less careful with it than Rubble had been with his meal, which was saying something. “Anyway, Treble’s not coming to lunch today, he’s staying late in music class again.”
Rubble nodded. “S’good to have a hobby that doesn’t involve swinging metal sticks at freakies. Speakin’ of freakies, where’s-” The cushion sunk in as Bones sat down, his appearance taking both of the boys by surprise. “JESUS,” Rubble barked. “We gotta get you a bell or something!”
“I have a bell,” Bones said simply. “It’s an old Shinto tool for driving away spirits.”
“I mean for your neck!”
The ghastly boy chuckled, pulling a single sandwich out of his vest. It was darker than yesterday’s, though whether from wear, or actually being a different vest, his friends weren’t sure. He unwrapped it and took a bite, chewing quietly, then swallowed. Then his expression turned serious. “Alright, listen. Remember how I said something stupid was probably gonna happen at the Fall Formal this year?”
Dusty leaned back in his chair, already not liking where this was going. “Yeessss?” Bones dropped a big old leather book on the table. “...where did you even pull that from?”
Bones’ only answer was a raised eyebrow. “I did some reading last night, cause there was something weird about the dates this year. Turns out I was right.”
The other boys groaned. “Oh wonderful. What horrible monstrosity is gonna try to eat our face this time?” Rubble grumbled.
Bones gave him a side-eye glance, then returned his attention to the book. With a practiced hand, he flipped it open to a marked page, and poked a picture in the book with an angry finger. “THAT.”
Dusty and Rubble cautiously glanced at the tome, then reeled back with upset expressions. “I do NOT want to fight that,” Dusty groaned, turning pale.
The book slammed closed as Bones tucked it away. “Unfortunately, unless I, or we, can figure out how to stop this nasty from jumping cosmic bail, we might have to.”
The seat shifted strangely as Rubble moved around, uncomfortable. “Why does it have so many arms?!”