Paranatural is back from its break! I hope you all had a restful few weeks. I'm excited to hit the ground running in 2026, and I hope it's an exciting year for all of you, Paranatural, and the rest of my work! I hope you'll help me spread the word about this story as it trundles on. Thank you, and thanks for reading!

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[Transcript]

        From her seat upon the School Store's spotlit stage, Roxy, Number Six of the Twelve Black Saint Councilor-Generals, tossed her hair back to reveal a blase sneer.

        "Heyyy School STORE! What's up, you brainless barfly barfbags?!" she called out to the crowd. 

        Three dozen bullies turned to face her, rancorous that she had ruined the pleasant island vibe. Lisa's eyes flared with goth intensity, one patron whirled out one of those flippy little butterfly knives, and another student flashed the first inch of a gleaming wakizashi.

        "Thanks to some recent legislation, you may or may not have a right to remain silent," Roxy smirked, strumming on her guitar, "but either way, I wanna hear you losers MAKE SOME NOISE!" Her amp screeched as she reared back, slamming out an earsplitting riff.

        Students flinched across the Barfe. The weakest toadies—the grunts who clung to bigger bullies like remora, adding shrill "yeahs" and "you-tell-'ems" to their bosses' every insult—were instantly felled, collapsing backwards from their seats or dissipating into dust.

        "Not to add to the FEEDBACK you're already getting," Max shouted over the commotion, "but as a connoisseur of LOUD, ATONAL MUSIC, you do not have what it takes to be ENDEARINGLY UNTALENTED!"

        Roxy laughed, flashing devil horns, then a fleeting devil pitchfork, and then just its middle prong.

        "All the best art is offensive to the senses!"

        "Your IDEOLOGY is BORING!" Max yelled back at her.

        "You're a masterpiece, then, Roxy: there's no sense you DON'T offend, you monotone-deaf DWEEB!" a random bully shouted, instantly upstaging Max—a keen reminder he was new to the community, and still had much to learn.

        Undeterred by the crowd's jeering, the band onstage with Roxy tore away their civilian disguises, revealing badges and black-and-white uniforms: a Student Council strike team. 

        "Surprise, daddy-o," hummed Jazz, the ninth seat of the Black Saints and the first chair of Jazz Band (a club that had renamed itself after her, its soulful star, in admiration of her talent, though the honor hadn't technically changed anything on paper). Jazz rose from the drum kit she'd been lightly tapping with a brush made from the soft mane of a grieving Shetland pony. "This whole time," she said, pointing at the tuba she'd been trapped in since The Incident, "I wasn't actually a drummer."

        "Who CARES?!" whined Violet, covering her ears to block out Roxy's screeching music.

        "But I can jive with beats, too, when the brass won't drown the blues," Jazz crooned. She stared wistfully up into the stage lights, then squinted, failed once again by her tiny useless sunglasses (the listing had been literal when it claimed they were made to fit "cool cats"). "Like, it's just a matter of what moves me, you dig? The drums are hot to trot out on occasion, but the tuba's in my veins. As in it's physically entangled with a couple major arteries."

        "I do hope that you have the brass to take a couple notes to heart, then, Jazz," sighed Lisa, radiating menace. "Just like you did when timing your off-rhythm cymbal-playing, when you stepped through my doors... you picked the wrong bar to crash."

        Lisa snapped her fingers, and a platoon of Bayview Biddle School's worst bullies rose to defend their den of thieves. Across the room, a dozen different Code of Conduct violations occurred in tandem as the teeming legion drew all sorts of dangerous melee weaponry. Lisa smiled. She was not alone.

        Roxy laughed and shook her head (in truth, she was headbanging horizontally and in slow motion, a subtle but significant distinction).

        "See, the trouble with buying all your friends, babe... is that someone can outbid you."

        This time, Jazz snapped even louder (it was a skill that she'd perfected), and half the room that had risen to defend the School Store suddenly turned on their fellow bullies. Instantly, the remaining patrons were surrounded, driven back against the bar. Fresh Student Council badges gleamed upon the sneering traitors' chests—they'd all been deputized. 

        "That Starchman Scrip you peddle can't compare to cold hard cash," Roxy snickered, strumming out a mocking dirge on her guitar. "Your ugly mugger minions were already pleased as punch to pick a fight over spare change. All it took to make 'em bite the hand that feeds 'em cruddy cocktails... is five bucks from the bake sale budget EACH." Her song became a patriotic anthem played off-key. "Every rebel is a sell-out in the making... but MAN, that asking price! Shows how little you're worth to your so-called friends, huh, Pentagraham?"

        Lisa bit her lip. She wouldn't show a hint of what she felt. It was a skill that she'd perfected. 

        "You couldn't sell out a show with three seats and supportive parents, you weird fake punk JERK! No wonder you're so keen to cuff yourself a captive audience! Keep dreaming, though—all future famous rock stars pay for followers, I'm sure!"

        Lisa turned to find a red-faced Violet scowling, arms folded, furious, as ever, on behalf of her best friend. Lisa smiled, grateful for her incandescent presence. She was always grateful for her. How could she feel lonely with a friend like Violet at her side? She should always have been grateful, and accepted what she'd already been given—what she didn't dare to risk by wanting more. She looked from Violet to the phalanx of protectors still remaining, then to Max, and felt a soothing rush of solidarity.

        "Maxwell," she said, smiling at him. "What a pleasant treat to see you standing with us on the wrong side of the law. Normally it takes my wiles longer to corrupt nice boys like you."

        "I am NOT a nice boy," Max scoffed, rising from his seat. "I'm like famously mildly mean like all the time." He slung his haunted bat over his shoulder. "Plus no one's offered me five dollars yet. If they did, though"—Max paused, waiting for the auction to begin, but he was evidently worth less than a cupcake to the Council—"I'D SAY NO," he growled, offended by their undisguised disinterest in his mercenary services. "Just for the RECORD. Unlike YOU domesticated sheeple-dog capitulaters, I have actual CONVICTIONS—"

        "Not yet you don't," said Ollie, slapping handcuffs around Max's cast.

        "HUH?!" Max sputtered in shock. "What do you think you're DOING, you big—AAAAAH WHAT THE—EW!!!" he screeched. Max had turned around to find himself flanked by Number Seven of the Twelve Black Saint Councilor-Generals, Diva, wearing Ollie's outfit and a bald cap.

        "Looking for your precious bouncer?" smirked the Drama Club's best actor. "How do you think we got past all your safeguards and security? You've been talking to ME, DIVA, this WHOLE TIME. I replaced Ollie Oop hours ago."

        "No you didn't," Max said flatly. "That's not true." He was a terrible improv partner.

        "The hardest part was NOT ATTRACTING ATTENTION FOR ONCE," scoffed Diva, tossing phantom hair fully enclosed beneath her bald cap. "Once I'd CREPT UP BEHIND HIM, all it took was a pair of headphones and a few seconds of the most snoozeworthy stageplay ever recorded—‘Waiting for Godot in Total Silence in the Rain'—and Ollie Oop was SLEEPING LIKE THE BABY HE RESEMBLES."

        "Sure," said Max. "Okay."

        "Hey, that's a cheaper trick than mine," snickered Roxy, grinning at her fellow Student Councilor's ridiculous disguise. "I had to blow like eighty bucks. All that your scheme cost you was your dignity, huh, Diva?"

        "...Like you're not ONE BAD BREAKUP and an AWFUL EMO ALBUM from a BUZZCUT you can't ROCK, like, HALF this good!" Diva hurled her bald cap at Roxy, which landed in the mouth of Jazz's tuba with a halting cartoon squeak.

        Before Lisa's dwindling rebel faction could exploit their foes' infighting, the doors of the School Store creaked slowly open. Hardly any light crept in around the new arrivals, so vast and all-consuming was the shadow they had cast into the room.