Chapter 5: First Contact
Eugene's reconnaissance skills rivaled any professional intelligence operative.
"She sits in the northeast corner of the library every evening from seven to nine," he said, consulting notes that looked suspiciously like a surveillance report. "Always at the same table, always reading something that makes other students avoid her section. Yesterday it was a book about medieval torture devices. Today she had something called 'The Anatomy of Decomposition.'"
"You've been watching her for two days?"
"Observing," Eugene corrected. "There's a difference. Watching implies personal interest. This is purely academic curiosity about abnormal social patterns."
Sure it is.
Eugene had been fascinated by Wednesday Addams since her dramatic arrival, treating her like a particularly exotic species of bee that had wandered into his hive. The fact that she'd caused chaos on day one only increased his scientific interest.
"She doesn't talk to anyone. Sits alone at meals, attends classes without participating, and apparently spends her evenings researching ways to dispose of bodies." He paused, considering. "I think she might be planning something."
She's always planning something.
The certainty came from fragmented memories of late-night television viewing. Wednesday Addams was a walking conspiracy, someone who saw the world as a puzzle to be solved through systematic application of logic and controlled violence.
Perfect.
"Thanks for the intelligence."
"You're not actually going to approach her, are you?" Eugene's voice climbed an octave. "Because she's terrifying, and I like having a roommate with all his limbs attached."
"Relax. I'm not planning to ask her to prom."
Just a simple transaction. Information for information.
The library's northeast corner felt like stepping into Wednesday's personal domain. She'd claimed the space through sheer force of personality, creating an invisible perimeter that other students respected through instinct or terror. The table she preferred sat beneath a stained glass window that cast everything in shades of red and amber, perfect lighting for someone who probably considered blood a decorative accent.
I arrived thirty minutes early and positioned myself at the neighboring table with a book I'd selected specifically for credibility: "Historical Persecution of Supernatural Minorities: A Legal Analysis." Dense, academic, and exactly the kind of reading material that suggested serious research rather than casual browsing.
Competence through preparation.
When Wednesday appeared at exactly seven PM, she moved through the library like she owned it. Black dress, braids pulled back severely, expression that suggested she was mentally cataloguing which students would make the best fertilizer. She settled into her usual chair without acknowledging my presence, opened a leather-bound volume titled "Forensic Pathology: Modern Investigative Techniques," and began reading with the focus of someone preparing for an exam in murder.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I waited seventeen minutes, giving her time to settle into her routine, then spoke without looking up from my book.
"Rowan Laslow has been watching you since you arrived. His behavioral pattern suggests fixation, possibly violent ideation."
Wednesday's eyes lifted from her text, fixing on my face with the clinical attention of someone performing a dissection. No surprise, no alarm, just cold calculation.
"And you're telling me this because?"
I finally met her gaze, keeping my expression neutral. "Because when something happens to him, you'll be suspected. Better you know someone else noticed."
Truth. Strategic truth, but truth nonetheless.
She studied me for another long moment, probably cataloguing details for future reference. Height, build, threat assessment, potential usefulness. I'd seen the same expression on predators evaluating prey, except Wednesday was evaluating whether I was worth keeping alive.
"You've been observing me as well," she said finally. "Interesting timing, positioning yourself here exactly when I arrive."
She's not wrong.
"I read in the same section you prefer. Historical persecution, legal precedents, social dynamics. Your reputation preceded you by about forty-eight hours."
"And what exactly is my reputation?"
"Expelled from eight schools. Dumped piranhas in a swimming pool. Comes from a family with enough political connections to make disciplinary action complicated." I closed my book, giving her my full attention. "Also, you're either genuinely psychotic or playing a very sophisticated game."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across her features. "What makes you think those are mutually exclusive?"
Fair point.
"They're not. But psychotics don't usually engage in strategic information gathering. You've been mapping Nevermore's social structure since arrival, same as me."
"Perceptive." She leaned back in her chair, posture relaxing fractionally. "Very well. You want to trade intelligence. What do you have to offer beyond paranoid observations about disturbed classmates?"
Now we're talking.
"Three things. First, Rowan's fixation isn't random—he's been researching Addams family history, specifically prophecies and inherited abilities. Second, the student power structure here is more fragmented than it appears, which creates opportunities for someone willing to exploit the cracks. Third, Principal Weems is treating you as a special case, not standard disciplinary protocol."
Wednesday's expression sharpened with genuine interest. "Elaborate on the second point."
"Bianca Barclay controls the Scales through siren manipulation, but her hold is artificial. Remove her influence and the group fractures. Xavier Thorpe has family leverage and genuine artistic talent, but he's isolated himself through recent erratic behavior. The Furs operate on pack dynamics that can be disrupted by challenging hierarchy."
Standard intelligence briefing. Present observations, allow recipient to draw conclusions.
"You've done your homework."
"Knowledge is survival. What do you have for me?"
Wednesday closed her forensics textbook and leaned forward slightly. "Bianca's siren abilities extend beyond simple vocal manipulation. She can induce specific emotional states, create false memories, and maintain influence for hours after direct contact. Xavier's recent 'erratic behavior' includes painting scenes that haven't occurred yet—either prescient ability or carefully staged psychological manipulation. Principal Weems has been in contact with my parents regarding something she refers to as 'the family obligation,' which suggests my presence here serves purposes beyond standard education."
Holy shit.
The information was solid gold—tactical intelligence that could save my life if things went sideways. Wednesday wasn't just observant; she was operating at a level that made most intelligence professionals look like amateurs.
"Useful," I said, matching her tone. "Anything else?"
"The Furs' apparent pack loyalty masks significant internal tension. Three separate individuals have approached me about 'alliance opportunities,' which suggests their unity is performance rather than genuine solidarity." She paused. "Your turn. What specifically makes you think Rowan poses an immediate threat?"
The nightmares. The fragmented memories. The absolute certainty that he's going to die soon.
"Escalating surveillance patterns. Increased research into family-specific vulnerabilities. And yesterday I observed him arguing with himself in the courtyard, suggesting either severe psychological deterioration or communication with an external influence."
Close enough to the truth.
Wednesday absorbed this information with the same clinical detachment she'd shown throughout our conversation. "You're either remarkably paranoid or actually competent. I'll decide which after Rowan does whatever you think he's planning."
She stood, gathering her books with efficient movements. "This conversation didn't happen. If you have additional intelligence worth trading, same time tomorrow."
Alliance established.
"Understood."
Wednesday walked away without looking back, leaving me alone with the satisfaction of a successful first contact. She was exactly what I'd expected—cold, calculating, and absolutely ruthless in pursuit of her objectives.
Perfect ally. Terrible enemy.
"Please tell me you weren't just conspiring with the scary murder girl."
Eugene appeared at my table like a concerned parent catching their teenager sneaking out past curfew. He'd clearly been watching from the stacks, probably taking notes on our interaction for his ever-growing psychological profiles.
"We exchanged information about student dynamics," I said. "Purely academic."
"Right. Academic." Eugene sat down heavily, studying Wednesday's abandoned coffee cup like it might contain evidence of criminal plotting. "She's dangerous, Aron. I know you're new here and still figuring out the social landscape, but Wednesday Addams isn't someone you want to get involved with."
Too late for that.
"She's tactically efficient and doesn't waste time on social games. We're not friends. We're assets to each other."
The words came out exactly as I'd intended—cold, pragmatic, strategically sound. But Eugene's expression shifted from concern to something that looked almost like sadness.
"Is that what you think friendship is? Assets and utility?"
Isn't it?
The question caught me off guard. In my previous life, relationships had been transactional by necessity. Survival meant calculating what people could offer versus what they might cost, forming alliances based on mutual benefit rather than genuine connection.
But Eugene doesn't work that way.
He sat there looking disappointed, and I realized he genuinely cared about my wellbeing for no reason beyond proximity and shared living space. No agenda, no calculation, just human decency that I'd apparently forgotten existed.
"I don't..." I started, then stopped. How do you explain that you've forgotten how to trust people?
Eugene must have read something in my silence, because his expression softened. Instead of pushing the conversation, he pulled out his phone and started showing me pictures from his latest bee colony inspection.
"Look at this one," he said, pointing to a close-up of hexagonal honeycomb. "Perfect geometric efficiency. Each cell built to exact specifications, but they all work together to support the whole structure."
Bees. Of course.
But I found myself actually looking at the images instead of dismissing them as irrelevant chatter. The craftsmanship was genuinely impressive—thousands of individual insects working in perfect coordination to create something beautiful and functional.
"They don't question the design," Eugene continued. "Each bee does their part because it serves the collective good. Simple, elegant, effective."
Unlike human relationships.
But as he talked about colony dynamics and cooperative behavior, I realized he wasn't really discussing bees. He was offering a different model for understanding connection—one based on mutual support rather than mutual exploitation.
Maybe he has a point.
We sat there for another hour while Eugene showed me pictures and explained hive management techniques. It should have been boring, but his enthusiasm was infectious, and the genuine warmth in his voice made me remember what it felt like to have someone actually care about my wellbeing.
This is what friendship looks like.
That night, I added a new page to my notebook: Alliance—Wednesday Addams. Mutual information exchange. No emotional investment required.
Below it, I started sketching Eugene's beehive diagrams from memory. The geometric patterns were soothing, each line connecting to others in precise mathematical relationships. While I drew, Eugene snored peacefully across the room, apparently satisfied that I wasn't going to get myself murdered by befriending dangerous psychopaths.
He's wrong about Wednesday. She's not dangerous to allies, just enemies.
But maybe he's right about friendship.
My shadow pooled darker than natural darkness should allow, spreading across the floor in patterns that didn't match any light source. Somewhere in the woods beyond campus walls, movement flickered between the trees—something large and wrong-jointed, hunting with patient intelligence.
Tomorrow I need to warn Wednesday about Rowan.
Tonight, I just need to figure out how to sleep without my powers reaching for things they shouldn't touch.
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