"Ready, man?" Mitch asked, carefully lifting a cardboard carton and 
cradling it gently in his arms.

Benton nodded glumly. "Ready," he replied, picking up another carton. 
He took one last look around the room that had been the centre of his 
school life for two years, so oddly empty. The display tables were 
stacked on top of each other in the corner, not lining the walls and 
covered with his latest creations. The cupboard where the school's 
extensive collection of movie equipment had been cleared, the cameras 
and lights and monitors placed in storage. Benton winced in memory. 
Francis had actually broken down in tears as the equipment was 
carried out and had had to be forcibly removed, kicking and screaimng. 
Even the walls were a sterile white, where they had formally been 
relieved by a riot of pinks and blues and yellows as Annie proudly 
showed off her 'art'. Well, perhaps it wasn't *all* bad, Benton 
reflected. There was no escaping it though. The room was empty, an 
emptiness echoed nicely by the void in the pit of his stomach.

Mitch held the door open for him, silently respectful of his friend's 
obvious reluctance to talk.

They paced slowly down corridors filled with whispering students. Julie 
was at the center of a huge knot of them, but she broke free for a 
minute as the pair passed by.

"Hey, wait up!" she called, running up behind them. The two boys halted. 
"What?" Mitch asked.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, and good luck at Rampart," she 
said sincerely. "I called in some contacts to make things easier for 
you."

Benton blinked, slightly startled. "Thanks, Julie," he replied.

There was an awkward pause. "Well, bye," Julie said finally, and went 
back to her place in the corridor. The hubbub around her increased.

Mitch raised an eyebrow at Benton, who shrugged helplessly in reply. 
"She'll want a favour later, maybe?" he suggested.

"Yeah," Mitch agreed. "Let's go."

Jody was waiting patiently in the carpark. "Ready?" she asked, easily 
stowing the last of the cartons holding Benton's artworks in the boot 
of the Traffic Smasher.

"Ready," Benton sighed, staring wistfully up at the school as Jody 
pulled out of the carpark.

Mindful of her friend and the artworks in the back, Jody was 
extremely sedate, sticking to a mere 150% of the speed limit all the 
way to Benton's house. It took mere moments for them to pile the 
cartons in the hallway and then there was nothing to say, nothing to 
do to make it any better. Jody tried anyway.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," she encouraged weakly.

Benton snorted. "At Rampart? With that ape Bruno and his cronies? It 
*will* be that bad, and you know it." 

Jody flinched and dropped her eyes, unable to argue.

"Sorry," Benton mumbled. "Um... if you guys don't mind I'd kinda 
like to be alone."

Mitch laid a hand on Jody's shoulder and pulled her gently towards 
the door. Benton watched it close with a gentle click. It sounded very 
final. Ignoring the boxes, he went straight to his bedroom, pulled the 
blinds and lay face down on his bed. No sound emerged from the pillows.

* * * * *

"Go over the stages again," Jody not-quite requested, turning the keys 
in the ignition.

Mitch sighed and listed them off on his fingers. "Denial, 
Acknowledgement, Depression -- that's now -- Anger, Grief, Acceptance."

Jody frowned. "I don't like it," she said bluntly.

"Either do I," Mitch agreed, slumping down into his seat moodily. "Your 
friend doesn't know who it was?"

"Not a trace," Jody replied, absent-mindedly swerving around a Volvolt. 
"Wireless has some suspicions though - someone was trying to hack into 
our records a couple of days ago."

Mitch straightened. "Oh?"

"Yup. No ID on them though. Whoever it is, they're good."

Mitch hummed thoughtfully. "Interesting," he mused, then shook his head 
firmly. "Revenge can wait. We have to work on getting the Art Department 
re-instated - and that means we have to find a student to replace Annie." 
He gnawed at his thumb, then brightened. "Why can't we just invent a 
student in the school records?" he asked.

Jody's palmtop beeped into life. "Not a chance," a voice crackled through 
it. "The administration isn't that stupid."

"Hi, Wireless," Jody said, taking her eyes off the road for a moment to 
glance at her hand. Mitch yelped and grabbed the wheel, desperately 
spinning it to avoid the seven ton Yttian Hauler bearing down on them. 

Jody ignored her companion's squealing and pushed him back into his seat, 
regaining control of the wheel. "Any other ideas?" she asked.

"We create a robotic student," Mitch suggested. "Benton can build it, 
you can do all the programming and I'll create a personality for it, 
along with-"

"Impossible," Wireless responded. "You'd never get it past security."

"A hologram?"

"Someone would walk through it and *bam*. Fabu idea, but only in the 
reels."

"I create a new persona and enroll him, alternatively appearing as Mitch 
and as-"

"Poor attendance record, leading to expulsion, and how does that help?"

"So what are your suggestions?" Mitch said sharply, irritated by the 
cyber-geek's negativity.

"Mine is sadly practical and unimaginative," the computerised voice 
replied dryly.  "All that's needed is a real, live person who's willing 
to quit their present school and attend High High instead. Someone with 
a modicum of artistic talent would be ideal, but unnecessary, considering 
Annie." 

Mitch found himself nodding in agreemnet. "So all we have to do is find 
someone at Rampart or one of the other schools who'd prefer High High to 
their present hellish existence?" He sighed in mock anguish. "That seems 
so... mundane."

Wireless laughed, a crackling, staticy laugh that suggested he didn't use 
it too often. "As long as there's a real person attending the school, I 
can easily jack the records so that it appears they've been accepted and 
paid their fees. The only problem will be to get them through the psych 
assessments at Registration."

"I'm an intern at the Registration Office," Mitch grinned. "Psych will 
*not* be a problem. I can-"

He was abruptly cut off as the Traffic Smasher screeched to a halt. 
Mitch was flung violently forward, his neck cracking unpleasantly in 
protest. "Jody!" he growled, rubbing the aforesaid neck gingerly. "I 
know you're a good driver but could you *warn* me before you pull one of 
these stunts?"

"Cameras 1657B and A indicate a seven car pile-up," Wireless crackled. 
"Is everything okay?"

Jody's only response was to point wordlessly out the window. Mitch peered 
out. "What?" he asked irritably, still rubbing his neck. Then he caught it. 
A small blur of white, acccelerating down the pavement. From this distance 
he could just make out the croquet mallet on the figure's back. He grinned 
as understanding dawned. "Well, well, well," he smiled. "How *convenient*."

Jody smiled back, and restarted the engine.

* * * * *

Benton had decided to visit Francis, reasoning rather fuzzily that seeing 
someone more miserable than he was might make him appreciate his own 
situation better. Perhaps he could even try and cheer the director up, 
comforting himself in the process. Besides, they were both starting at 
Rampart the next day, and would need to formulate some strategies to avoid 
the well-nigh inevitable ass-kickings he was sure would be handed out. 
Francis, however, had other plans in mind.

"ANGST!" Francis howled, gesturing urgently to Benton from his place 
behind the camera. "Silent, soul-searing agony! Give me PAIN! But 
controlled, understated pain, okay?"

Benton looked around uncomfortably. "How do you expect to make a movie 
with one hand-cam, one spotlight and a hospital bed?" he asked. "How old 
is that camera anyway, Francis?"

"It belonged to my great-great-grandfather," Francis said reverently, 
wrapping a bit more duct tape about the camera body to hold the battery in 
place. "You can't buy these anymore! Now, give me anguish!"

"But... how? I mean... *one* camera?"

Francis lowered the tiny camera again and sighed heavily. "It's very simple," 
he explained patiently. "Simple, minimalist, black and white, light and dark, 
animate and inanimate, sun and moon, truth and lies, yin and yang. Without 
the ostentatious ornamentation forced on me by the oppressive overlord 
collective we called High High, I am free to go back to my roots, to find 
simple origins and truths in the simplicity of... simple things." He gestured 
around the bare room then cocked his head at Benton, whose mouth was wide open. 
More exposition was needed, obviously.

"Your role is that of man, man as an individual and an entirety," he 
declared, taking off his glasses and waving them in the air dramatically. 
"With this bare set and these few props you'll show all the loneliness of the 
long distance runner without the gilded cage of a chariot of fire." He shook his 
head with all the noble suffering of the true artiste. Your radiant friend Jody 
would be *perfect* for this piece. She could represent woman as you do man, the 
eternal struggle/dance between the two sexes brought sharply into focus." He 
shrugged. "Unfortunately, she was busy when I called." He lifted the camera to 
his shoulder. "Now... CREATE!"

Benton blinked. "Um..." he began, then shook his head. It did seem to be 
making Francis feel better. And perhaps it would help get him his own mind 
off things. So he hunched into a ball and slowly unfurled towards the single 
spotlight, head bowed in, as Francis rapturously put it, the eternal sorrow of 
the fallen angel.

* * * * *

Scrowl chuckled to himself as he walked home, well satisfied with the 
morning's work. It wasn't over, of course. No, the destruction of Benton's 
life was only beginning. But it definitely was a beginning. As a nice bonus, 
he'd managed to make a negative impact on that monster girl and the 
head-doctor wimp through their friend's pain, not to mention the destruction 
he'd wrought on the lives of the freakish director, the washed-up 
hack teacher and the bunny lover. He idly pondered whether he should focus 
all his energies on Benton or gradually pull down the group as a whole. As 
a whole, he rather thought. More victims equaled more opportunities, like 
the one that had come up today.

He frowned. Someone had kicked him out of his hacking mission. Someone had 
prevented security from tumbling to the trio's entry to the school. He 
clenched a fist. When he found someone, someone would be on his list too! 
Thus resolved, he snatched a lollipop from a passing toddler and grinned 
nastily. To pull the group down step by step was a challenge, but one he 
was sure to rise to. Now, to decide on the next target...

* * * * *

Mr Higgins scrolled through the last of the advertisements and groaned. He 
turned his computer off and walked into the kitchen. He wasn't fired - yet. 
He still had two weeks on his contract, but he knew it was hopeless. He'd 
always *known* they'd close him down some day, but he'd hoped there'd be 
alternatives available. He'd been dumb. No art teachers wanted. Anywhere. 
He could (he shuddered) privately tutor rich kids, but he had a bit saved 
up and was unwilling to do that until he was literally starving. "What's 
wrong with the world, Simon?" he asked. "They don't want artists anymore!"

Simon was wide-mouthed in shock. Or perhaps it wasn't the shock. After all, 
wide-mouthed was the typical pose for a goldfish at least 50% of the time.

"Exactly," Mr Higgins agreed, unscrewing the top of a bottle of 80% proof 
Japanese whiskey and pouring a generous shot into his coffee. He gulped 
down half the cup in a single swallow and topped it up. "That *stupid* 
Annie kid... well, at least I won't have to put up with her anymore." He 
shuddered and relaxed somewhat as a warm alcoholic glow began to spread 
through his system. "I'll probably lose the house though," he explained 
to his piscine companion. "Maybe you too!"

Simon blinked twice and flicked his dorsal fin.

"Not til I have to though," the teacher reassured him, knocking back 
another shot. He blinked owlishly. "You keep going round and round," he 
observed.

Simon darted through water weeds.

"Round and round and round and round and roun' and roun' and rou-" Mr 
Higgins jerked upright as a chime echoed through the kitchen. "Yeah?" he 
called uncertainly.

"It's Mitch White, sir, a student at Hi- er, Oppenheimer," a voice replied 
smoothly.

"Don' teach there no more!" the teacher yelled. "Hooray!" He sobbed. "I'm 
gonna be poor... Saaaaaad..."

"Er, quite," the student replied. His voice suddenly changed, becoming 
reassuring, open. This was a voice you could tell anything to, a voice you 
could trust. A voice that could tell you the right thing to do. "If you got 
your job back, you'd have money, right?"

"Righ'!" Mr Higgins agreed, taking a pull at the bottle. "But the students 
are gone. Need three for a department. Only got... uh..."

"Two?" the voice suggested.

"Yeah. That one."

"I can help. May I come in?"

"Um... dunno..."

Outside, Jody scowled in disgust as the sound of muffled snoring emanated 
from the intercom. "I could open this door in less than ten seconds with my 
eyes closed and my ankles tied to my wrists," she said flatly. "Why are we 
bothering playing nice?"

Mitch covered the intercom microphone with one hand and gave her an annoyed 
look. "This is my department, if you *don't* mind. We need these acceptance 
papers signed. And you *do* want him to treat your protege nicely, don't you?"

To her intense pique, Jody blushed slightly.

The third member of their little party glanced at her warily and edged away. 
"This was a stupid idea," he groused, adjusting his sweatband. "Perhaps I 
would be better off staying at Rampart. At least they have a sports program."

"Football," Mitch said bluntly. "We explained this to you, Wendell. A diploma 
from High High will put you in a far better position to rebuild your family's 
shattered fortunes." He turned back to the intercom, voice abruptly soothing 
and understanding. "Are you there, Paul?" he asked. If you used their first 
name, it gave you power over them...

Mr Higgins jerked awake again as the voice. "Yesh?" he slurred.

"I understand," the voice continued compassionately. "And I can help. I have 
a student here, a third one. All you have to do is sign these papers and you'll 
have a job again."

"Job?"

"Yes."

The teacher thought about it. "That's good," he decided, and stumbled to the 
door.

Jody stepped back in disgust as the man's breath washed over her, unpleasantly 
warm and malty. 

"Papers?" he asked, swaying back and forth and blinking slightly in the light 
of the setting sun.

Mitch thrust them into his hands, along with an elegant fountain pen. "Here, 
here, here, and here," he instructed. "And... here. Thank you! See you in school 
tomorrow." He slid the papers into a security tube for safekeeping and brushed 
his hands off, very pleased with himself. "This is your new student, name's 
Wendell, nice talking to you, Paul, here's my card, be se-"

"What's he do?" the teacher interrupted suspiciously.

Mitch blinked. "Art," he replied. He waved a hand. "Painting, drawing... those 
things."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mr Higgins agreed. "But what's he *do*? His speciality?" 
He paused to congratulate himself on his sucessful navigation of a 
three-syllable word, then elaborated. "Annie did drawing. Francis does film. 
Benton does sclup... schul... those thingies he builds with stuff. What's *he* 
do?" He jerked a finger at Wendell, who shifted uncomfortably.

"Um..." Mitch began, glancing at Jody. She shrugged helplessly. "What *do* you 
do, Wendell?" he asked weakly.

The croquet-wielding boy glared at him icily. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Well?" the teacher prompted, eyes narrowed.

"TRANSFORMATION!" an excited voice squealed. "As the day transforms into night, 
so must man transform during his long journey through time itself, symbolised 
by your turning this corner! Ready? ACTION!"

A familiar figure rounded the corner, dressed all in black and swaying 
rythmically back and forth. "I dunno, Francis," he complained. "Am I doing this 
right?"

"Benton?" Mitch asked.

"Benton!" Jody called, grinning from ear to ear.

"ARTIST!" Wendell shouted, tearing down the garden path and through the gate 
without bothering to open it first. "Today you PAY!" He unhooked his croquet 
mallet as he ran, pounding into the ground as a warm-up shot. Small waves 
spread through the ground from the impact point. A water pipe burst, spraying 
out into the street. Benton looked up. "Oh crap," he said, and took off at his 
top speed followed by the latest member of the High High family.

"CONFLICT!" Francis shouted ecstatically, trailing behind the pair. "The 
essential growing procedure of man! Yes! More!"

Mitch glanced at Jody. Her eyes were oddly glazed and she was smiling slightly, 
he noticed. "Aren't you going to stop him pounding your boyfriend?" he asked.

Jody shook herself. "Uh, yeah." She smacked him smartly before jumping off the 
steps. "He is *not* my boyfriend!" she shouted, voice dwindling as she joined 
the pursuit.

Mitch rubbed his shoulder and turned his focus back to the teacher. "Um... 
Wendell's speciality is... uh..."

Mr Higgins looked critically at the splintered fence, the graduated ripples 
of asphalt, the small lake spreading in the middle of the street and the 
rapidly retreating figures in the foreground. "Performance art," he recognised.

Mitch blinked twice. "Uh, yes," he recovered. "Exactly. Very perceptive, Paul."

The teacher nodded. "Yeah. I see things. Now... I'm going to sleep." And he 
did, dropping into a heap in the doorway. Mitch prodded him with his foot, 
but the gentle snoring issuing from the prone form reassured him the man 
wasn't actually dead. He rubbed his hands in satisfaction as the sun set over 
Suburbia. Today had gone well, despite a shaky start. And tomorrow... tomorrow 
was a shining new day. He smirked, and glanced at his watch. Time for his 
appointment with the necrophiliac.

* * * * *

Scrowl stared at the screen in disbelief. He'd hacked into the school roll in 
an attempt to find the mysterious computer geek who'd thwarted him before. He 
hadn't expected *this* "Art Department re-instated," he read aloud, forcing the 
words through clenched teeth. "Wendell Fox-Smythe." He growled. Another 
name. Another target.

End.

Author's Notes:

Um, normally I thank my prereaders, but I didn't have any ^_^;; So! Thanks to
Twoflower for letting me see the original notes for the High High series. They 
were *very* handy. Apart from that, there's just the usual 'nasty RL probs meant 
I couldn't do as much as I wanted' stuff. Yeah. You know the stuff ^_^;;

If you like High High, I reccommend Heart Heart High, to be found at 
Improfanfic! Wai!