Xander's apartment
Alexander Stone — or Xander as his friends, enemies, teachers, and even stray cats called him — was the kind of cute, physically gifted delinquent who could outrun a police dog but couldn't remember where he dropped his homework an hour ago.
Despite his messy life choices, he had the natural charm of someone who smiled at danger and said, "bro, hit me harder."
This morning, though… something felt off.
Xander woke up with a violent gasp, sitting upright like a corpse returning from the dead. His unruly hair puffed up in all directions, making him look like a startled porcupine. He blinked, squinted at the sunlight leaking through the cheap curtains, and rubbed his face.
"…Huh. I'm definitely forgetting something."
His messy single-room apartment offered him no help. Dirty laundry lay in heaps like defeated monsters. Empty instant noodle cups were stacked in architectural patterns that would impress engineers. A single sock hung from the ceiling fan like a crime scene clue.
Xander scratched his cheek.
"Late for… something? Someone? My own funeral? No clue."
He swung his legs off the bed and trudged toward the bathroom with the determination of a zombie that had given up halfway. The faucet rattled like it might explode, but water eventually coughed out.
Xander leaned forward, squeezing toothpaste with more force than necessary, and started brushing his teeth.
Halfway through brushing, the realization struck him like a divine lightning bolt from the heavens.
His eyes widened. His pupils shrank. His toothbrush froze in his mouth.
"…"
Then—
"CRAP—!!!??"
His scream was so loud that a neighbor banged on the wall and yelled, "KEEP IT DOWN, YOU LITTLE DEMON!"
Xander didn't even respond — he was already in motion.
He spat, rinsed, tripped over a laundry pile, somersaulted, recovered mid-air (somehow), and landed on his feet. He sprinted to his closet, pulled the doors open—
And grabbed clothes that smelled like they had been through war.
The instant the stench hit him, he gagged.
"HURK— okay— nope— this is a crime— why do these smell like regret and death—!?"
He checked the time on his cracked phone screen.
Late. Very late.
Catastrophically late.
"No time! Fashion is temporary, FIELD TRIPS ARE FOREVER!"
He put the clothes on anyway, screaming internally the entire time.
With shoes half-tied and hair even messier than before, he vaulted over the apartment railing — missing the stairs entirely — and landed in a crouch that would've looked cool if he hadn't immediately rolled his ankle and yelped.
"OW, ow ow ow—! Style… always has a price…"
He hobbled to the front of the building where his bicycle waited: a battered, squeaky, rust-dusted relic that should've been in a museum titled Things That Should Not Still Function.
Xander grabbed the handlebars dramatically.
"Partner… I need you to hold together today. Just today. I'm begging you."
The bike responded by making a metallic wheeze.
Close enough to a yes.
He hopped on, kicked off the curb—
And shot forward like a poorly maintained rocket destined for disaster.
Pedestrians leaped out of the way. Dogs barked. A man screamed, "NOT AGAIN!"
Wind tore at Xander's hair as he pedaled with all the strength of a delinquent running from responsibility.
"I CAN MAKE IT—! MAYBE—!! PROBABLY NOT—!!!"
But he didn't slow down.
Because today was the school field trip… and missing it meant certain doom from both teachers and friends alike.
As Xander tore down the street, wind slapping his face like karma overdue, he fumbled one hand into his pocket and yanked out his phone. The bicycle wobbled dangerously.
"Come on—come on—pick up!" he hissed, pressing call on his best friend's contact: Sam 'Sunny Menace' Harper, a blonde troublemaker and Xander's official partner in crime.
The moment Sam picked up, Xander shouted:
"SAM!!"
"Xander, where the hell are you?!" Sam snapped immediately, sounding like he was sprinting. "We're literally boarding the bus right now!"
"I overslept!" Xander yelled back. "I'm on my way—just stall for me!"
On the other end, Sam groaned so loudly it crackled the speakers.
"Dude, it's Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom supervising today. The man hates us. Like—deep, ancient, generational hatred. I can probably stall for a minute, but five is pushing—"
"Five minutes! Gimme five minutes!" Xander begged, pedaling so hard he thought his legs might explode. "Please, bro! If I miss this trip, they're gonna make me rewrite the student code of conduct again!"
Sam sighed with the dramatic weight of someone who had already accepted his tragic fate.
"Fine. FIVE minutes. But you owe me your lunch money, your soul, and maybe your firstborn—"
"THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU—"
"Shut up and get here!" Sam barked before hanging up.
Xander shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Then the adrenaline kicked in.
"I've got five minutes… FIVE MINUTES!"
He leaned forward, gripping the handlebars with the determination of a hero in the final episode.
And then—
He gassed.
Instant acceleration.
Instant chaos.
The bike rocketed forward like a possessed missile, rattling violently but somehow staying intact through sheer spite.
Xander shot past pedestrians, trash cans, and street vendors—then past a car—then another—then, impossibly, past a moving motorcycle.
The motorcyclist did a double take.
"HEY—WHAT—!? GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE—!!"
But Xander was already gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of panic and old laundry.
"FIELD TRIP OR DEATH!" he screamed into the wind as he swerved around a taxi with supernatural reflexes.
At this speed, he was no longer a boy on a bike.
He was a delinquent comet racing against time itself.
Xander's bicycle screeched to a halt so violently the back wheel flipped up, spun once, and slammed down again. He jumped off, sprinting across the school grounds with the grace of a malfunctioning robot but the determination of a shonen protagonist late for Episode 1.
Ahead, the two giant field-trip buses were parked side by side, engines humming. Students were lined up, chatting excitedly as teachers did final headcounts.
Sam stood near the front of the line, waving dramatically like a traffic marshal signaling a plane.
"XANDER! THIS WAY! MOVE YOUR PRETTY BOY LEGS!"
Xander ducked behind a parked car, peeked around the corner, then bolted toward the queue with ninja-like stealth… or what he believed was ninja-like stealth.
In reality, he was crouched and creeping like a deranged crab trying not to be seen.
Sam whispered harshly, "Dude, subtlety! Subtlety!"
"I AM BEING SUBTLE!" Xander hissed back, crab-walking faster.
He slipped between two students mid-conversation.
"Uh—weren't you behind us?" one asked.
"You saw nothing," Xander whispered ominously.
He inched forward…
One step…
Another step…
Almost at the bus door…
And then—
A shadow loomed behind him.
Xander froze.
Sam's face paled instantly. "Oh no… oh no no no no…"
A low, gravelly voice growled:
"Stone."
Xander's soul left his body.
Slowly—slowly—he turned.
Standing behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a crimson tie sharpened like a weapon, a clipboard held like it was forged of steel, and a glare that could peel paint off walls.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom.
The legendary teacher who had declared a personal war on Xander and Sam years ago, after The Great Cafeteria Incident, The Fire Drill Debacle, and The Frog Incident of 8th Grade, which the school still refused to speak about.
His mustache twitched with fury.
"You." He pointed directly at Xander. Then at Sam. "And you. The Agents of Chaos. The Twin Headaches of this institution."
Xander forced a smile that looked more like a pain reaction.
"H-Hey, Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom… looking sharp today! New tie? Makes you look… dangerous."
Sam whispered, "Stop talking. You're making it worse."
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom crossed his arms so powerfully that air pressure dropped.
"Stone… explain to me," he growled, "why you are attempting to sneak into my line, for my field trip, after arriving ten minutes late, wearing clothes that look like they escaped a dumpster fire."
Xander opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"…Fashion?" he offered weakly.
A vein burst in the teacher's forehead.
Sam slammed his hands together and bowed. "SIR! I take full responsibility! Xander was—"
"Quiet, Harper," Fitts-El-Bottom snapped. "You two have caused enough catastrophes to fuel my nightmares for three years."
He leaned in close, voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't send you both back home right now."
The line went silent.
Students watched.
Sam held his breath.
Xander's life flashed before his eyes. Mostly detention.
Then—
A miracle.
A tiny one.
Barely a miracle, actually.
The second supervising teacher, Ms. Rayne, poked her head out of the bus.
"Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom! We're on a schedule. We need to leave now."
He twitched. He hated being interrupted.
He straightened, glaring down at Xander with the intensity of a man who had prayed for this moment but was robbed by time.
"Fine," he growled. "You may board."
Xander exhaled so hard he almost collapsed.
"But," Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom added slowly, raising one finger, "one screw-up. One mistake. One slightest hint of mischief from either of you… and you will wish you had stayed home."
Xander saluted with the fear of a soldier before a firing squad.
"No screw-ups, sir! Not a single one! We're practically responsible adults!"
Sam muttered, "Why would you say that out loud?"
The teacher snarled. "MOVE."
Xander and Sam scrambled onto the bus like two delinquents escaping death row.
As they flopped into their seats, Xander whispered:
"…Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"…I think this trip is gonna kill us."
Sam sighed. "Xander… this is only the beginning."
The bus engine roared to life, rumbling as it pulled out of the school gates. Students settled in, chatting, playing games, or dozing off.
Xander and Sam, however?
They were having the time of their lives.
Sam pressed his face against the window like a five-year-old at a zoo exhibit.
"Bro… look at that tree. That tree is SICK."
Xander leaned over him, eyes wide with childlike wonder. "DUDE—LOOK AT THE GRASS! Why does it look so fresh today?! Who watered it? A god?"
"Probably," Sam whispered dramatically.
The two stared out the window at every passing object — grass, trees, passing cars, a dog, clouds, a mailbox — with the awe of tourists seeing Earth for the first time.
"Sam. Sam, look. A bird!"
"WHOA. Dude, that bird is built different."
The other students watched with mixed confusion and amusement.
Meanwhile… lurking two rows behind them…
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom.
He sat stiffly, gripping his clipboard like it contained state secrets. His eyes narrowed into thin slits behind his glasses as he peeked over the seat every few seconds, watching Xander and Sam like a hawk watching two very suspicious, very stupid mice.
Peek.
Xander gasped at a passing lamppost.
Peek.
Sam loudly announced he saw a cool rock.
Peek.
Xander yelled "CAR!" every time they passed a vehicle.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom's vein throbbed.
"This is unnatural," he muttered. "They're too quiet. Too… cheerful. They must be planning something."
A nearby teacher whispered, "Sir… they're literally staring at grass."
"EXACTLY," he hissed. "No delinquent shows interest in grass unless something sinister is brewing."
He leaned forward again.
PEEK.
This time he held the stare so intensely that students began shifting uncomfortably.
Sam finally noticed.
"…Uh, Xander? Why is he staring at us like that?"
Xander turned around slowly.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom's eyes were wide open, unblinking.
Like a cat about to pounce.
Or a demon in a horror movie.
Or a teacher waiting for a child to admit they stole chalk.
Xander whispered, "Dude… do NOT make eye contact. He can smell fear."
"Xander!" Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom suddenly barked.
Sam flinched.
Xander froze.
"…Yes, sir?" Xander answered, voice cracking.
The teacher narrowed his eyes further. "What are you two… doing?"
Xander blinked. "Uh… looking at nature?"
Sam nodded seriously. "Yes, sir. Nature is beautiful."
Fitts-El-Bottom stared long and hard.
"…Hmph." He slipped back behind the seat, but the suspicion in his eyes did NOT fade. "I'm watching you. Both of you. One wrong move…"
Xander and Sam instantly sat upright, hands on their knees like perfectly disciplined students — at least for three seconds — until Sam whispered:
"…Look! A cool cloud!"
And the cycle started again.
Every time the boys whispered something stupid, Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom materialized behind the seat like a stalking demon.
Peek.
Peek.
Peek.
At one point Xander murmured, "Sam, I think he's teleporting."
"I KNOW he is," Sam replied.
And so the bus rolled on — with two idiots marveling at grass, one teacher sweating from paranoia, and an entire class questioning their sanity.
The buses rolled to a stop in front of the Glenwood Historical Museum — a tall, echoing building made of gray stone and old stories no teenager cared about.
Students piled out excitedly.
Xander and Sam stepped off the bus like survivors returning from war.
Sam squinted at the building. "…Looks boring."
"Sam, everything inside this place probably smells like old socks," Xander muttered.
"I hope it at least has a gift shop."
"Same. I need a keychain."
Their hopes were high.
Their energy was higher.
Their teacher's hatred was the highest.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom herded the students inside like a prison guard escorting dangerous criminals.
"Single file! No running! No touching anything! And you two—"
He stabbed a finger in Xander and Sam's direction.
"Do. Not. Breathe. Suspiciously."
Xander raised a hand. "Sir, how does someone breathe suspiciously—"
"LIKE THAT. STOP IT."
Xander inhaled normally, terrified.
They entered the main hall. Giant paintings. Old statues. Artifacts. A bunch of dusty displays from centuries ago.
Most students walked along politely while the tour guide lectured.
But Xander and Sam…
Were dying.
Literally.
Metaphorically.
Spiritually.
Xander's eyes glazed over. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides.
Sam's head drooped forward as if all joy had been sucked out of his soul.
"…Sam…" Xander whispered weakly. "I'm… bored."
"…Me too… I think… I think my brain just stopped working…"
Xander groaned. "I can't even feel my legs."
"My legs are fine," Sam said, "but my spirit is leaving my body."
They stared at an exhibit labeled Ancient Local Farming Tools.
A rusty pitchfork.
A dented bucket.
A broken rake.
Sam leaned in dramatically. "Bro… look at that rake."
Xander blinked. "I feel like it's staring into my soul."
A few students around them giggled.
Which immediately triggered—
THE PEEK.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom appeared behind them like he was summoned by mischief itself.
His eyes narrowed to slits.
His mustache twitched violently.
"Stone. Harper."
Sam straightened so fast his spine cracked.
"We didn't do anything!" he squeaked.
Xander nodded rapidly. "We swear! We're being good!"
The teacher leaned in slowly, menacingly.
"Don't think I don't know what's happening," he growled.
Xander blinked. "What's… happening?"
"You're bored," he hissed. "Boredom is when the two of you are at your most dangerous."
Sam whispered, "He's not wrong…"
Fitts-El-Bottom loomed over them the rest of the tour, stalking their every move with the hyper-focus of a sniper.
Whenever Xander raised a hand—
PEEK.
Whenever Sam sighed—
PEEK.
Whenever they whispered anything remotely interesting—
PEEK.
It was suffocating.
Xander leaned in close to Sam. "Dude… I feel like we're in prison."
Sam nodded grimly. "This is worse. At least prisoners get fresh air."
By the time they reached the dinosaur skeleton exhibit, both boys were barely conscious.
Xander whispered faintly, "…if one more artifact looks at me, I'm gonna pass out…"
Sam groaned, "Bro… I need chaos. I NEED IT."
Xander agreed wholeheartedly. "My hands are itching, Sam. They need to do something."
"But he's watching us."
"Every second."
They both slowly turned around.
Mr. Fitts-El-Bottom was standing five feet behind them.
Staring.
Unmoving.
Breathing like a furious dragon.
Both boys turned back quickly.
"…Okay," Xander murmured. "We need to survive this tour without becoming emotionally crippled."
Sam sighed deeply.
"This… is torture."