The Biotechnology Board of Canada and Other Bloodsuckers (1.5)

“It’s a teacher.” Shay insists.

Jimin nods enthusiastically.

“It makes sense. Teachers are cruel.” he says with a surge of spite that I decide not to unpack right now.

“It’s not a teacher.” Antoine says. “That’s crazy. I know all the teachers at least a little and none of them drink blood. You guys stayed up too late last night.”

I sigh.

“Antoine, stop being a dumbass. Obviously one of them is a Class A who’s been trading free extra marks for blood snacks. Let’s just go look at whoever manages the school clubs and from there, everyone who teaches on that floor and doesn’t do anything during lunch. We’ll find ‘em in two days, tops.” I say.

Jimin whispers something to Jet.

“No,” he replies, “she just watches too many detective shows.”

“Hey! I’m right and you know it! Come on, Jet, it’s got to be a teacher! Ooh, who do you think? You think it’s Ms. Francis? Oh, or maybe Mr. Tang, he’s way too nice all the time, it’s gotta be—”

Jet cuts me off.

“I don’t care who it is. I just know I’m gonna kick their ass. It’s not fucking fair that everyone’s so scared all the time and it’s not fair that a kid got put in the hospital either. What is this, a game to you?”

We stare at each other for a few seconds. Or, well, he stares at me and I stare at the straps on my backpack and pray he’ll disappear. I don’t want anyone to look at me. I want to be invisible and have everyone know I’m here. Why can’t you just make fun of people and put them down and have everyone be on your side? That’s what’s not fair.

Antoine saves my ass. He’s the one who points out the chariot.

“Hey, guys, look.” he says, pointing across the front of the school to the parking lot and the massive, armoured truck taking up a spot and a half with its monster-proof bulk. Obsidian-black armour glass stares grimly back at us, the walk-in trunk locked up like a vault. Kids are already staring and chatting and taking pictures. We’re not the first ones to see it, but we’re the first ones to see him. The hunter. The charioteer.

You don’t see government monster hunters often, except staring back at you on the evening news, trying to kill the cameraman with their minds. Maybe in the movies, covered in soot and viscera and tossing out one-liners. Occasionally you get a TV show about them, and they’re all B-list former teen idols who spend more time crying than they do shouldering a rocket launcher. Nobody wants to see the fights. Everyone knows how rough it is. It’d be like watching American cops’ bodycam footage for fun. You have to polish monster hunters, what they do, the quirks they pick up, before they start looking like people.

The man walking across our school parking lot doesn’t look like a person. He looks like an anthropomorphized road sign, wiry and rail-straight and grey in his long coat, his head fiery red and pale anemic white, his eyes symbols of dire warning. The government’s warning, the kind no one listens to, and then you run the red light and you get turned into hamburger meat. His freckled, worn, haunted face is scarred with thin, straight lines. Vandalized.

It takes me all of five seconds to tell that this is serious. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken someone like this off the side of the road where he belongs, standing watch, a sentinel. They wouldn’t have brought him here.

I keep watching him as he goes inside, walking his understated walk, never slouching or slowing down. Nobody else does. They’re all distracted by the superhero.

Yeah, this battle-worn twitchy-eyed freak travels around with celebrities in colourful outfits who are paid six figures a year to sit around on call just in case a monster tries to eat the National Art Gallery. It’s nuts. Personally, I’ve always preferred the monster hunters. You get what you see with them. This person? I don’t know what to expect.

They step out of the chariot and everyone goes silent. The whispering starts as they head across the parking lot, the burn scars on their youthful face only serving to accentuate their perfect teeth. I sidestep closer to the girls in front of me and catch a few words. Firefly. New Zealander. So cute. Hey, did you know they’re nonbinary? Yeah, I did, that’s cool.

Firefly, huh? Three guesses what their power is. It looks like nobody wants an autograph yet, but they walk like they’re expecting someone to ask, head held high, staring into the crowd. Surveying everyone, the way a politician does. Or a teen idol at an awards show. That’s what they look like, some up-and-coming music star. Fashionably shaggy, jet black shoulder-length hair that they haven’t even bothered to tie up. A permanent smile. Skate shoes. That ridiculous red designer sport jacket. Must cost four figures.

Not here to look. Here to look good.

I was right. It’s the monster hunter we really have to watch. He’ll help us catch the vampire. I can tell already.

Hey, why is Firefly wearing a glove on only one hand? Surely it’s not a fashion choice. What—

Jet walks through my field of vision and makes me stop thinking for a few seconds—long enough to see another kid sidle up to him and tap him on the shoulder. A track teammate, I think. Cell. What the hell kind of name is Cell, anyway? Why does everyone call him that? Maybe it’s short for… I don’t know, Russell?

“Yo, Jet, what’s going on? I was out sick yesterday.”

“Everyone was out sick yesterday, there’s a monster on the loose or something. A kid almost got killed. The principal called in the cavalry. Nobody’s gonna get anything done until they’re gone, people are gonna sneak out of class to watch this super… wander the halls in a popularity-fueled stupor. You might as well just keep staying home.” Jet replies.

Hey! That sounded like genuine frustration! Why aren’t you excited!? We’re totally sleuths! This is just gonna make it easier to solve the mystery!

Cell shrugs.

“Uh, nah, I’ll stay here. I gotta practice. Hey, what kind of monster do they think it is?”

Jet pauses, thinks. He buys my theory! It’s not a monster! In your face! Told you it made sense! Better yet, he’s smart enough not to tell anyone. Not even his buddy.

“Well, she’s not dead, so it’s maybe this big,” Jet replies, putting his hands a couple feet apart in front of him.

I don’t hear the rest. I have to get to class. Besides, I’m done getting distracted by Jet and his bullshit. He might not be committed, but you know who is?

That monster hunter. Jackpot. The real investigation starts now.