Just Marc

The hallways of Pearl Bailey High School were a cacophony of screeching sneakers, slamming lockers, and the desperate, high-pitched laughter of social outcasts trying to remain invisible. Steve Smith was currently among the latter, clutching his physics textbook to his chest like a shield as he navigated the treacherous waters between the cafeteria and the gym.

"I’m telling you, Snot, the new kid is definitely a vampire," Steve whispered, adjusting his glasses. "He’s got that porcelain skin, the brooding stare, and I saw him drinking something out of a flask behind the bleachers. It looked thick. It looked... red."

Snot rolled his eyes, his curly hair bouncing with the movement. "It was probably just V8, Steve. Or cherry Kool-Aid. Besides, vampires don't wear blue-streaked emo hair. That’s more of a 'my parents don't understand my poetry' vibe than a 'I crave the blood of the living' vibe."

"Whatever he is, he’s terrifying," Toshi added in Japanese, which went ignored as usual.

At the end of the hall, the subject of their scrutiny stood leaning against a locker. Marc Aidan was an anomaly in Langley Falls. At fourteen, he already stood a staggering six-foot-zero, towering over the upperclassmen. His jet-black hair fell in sharp angles across his pale face, punctuated by a single, vibrant streak of electric blue. He wore a tattered black hoodie and jeans that looked like they had survived a chainsaw accident.

By his side were his usual shadows: Zack, an albino boy with a permanent blue beret perched on his head, and Abby, a girl whose eyeliner was thick enough to be structural.

"Look at them," Snot muttered. "The Goth Avengers."

As Steve’s group tried to scurry past, Marc’s icy blue eyes flicked toward them. He didn't move, but the sheer gravity of his presence made Steve trip over his own feet. His textbook flew from his hands, sliding across the linoleum and hitting Marc’s boot with a dull thud.

The hallway went silent. Barry whimpered.

Marc looked down at the book, then up at Steve. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. He took a long, practiced swig, his throat moving as he swallowed whatever potent liquid was inside. He exhaled a breath that smelled faintly of juniper and cheap mouthwash.

"You dropped this, four-eyes," Marc said. His voice was deeper than a fourteen-year-old’s had any right to be.

He didn't hand the book back. Instead, he kicked it. The heavy textbook skidded thirty feet down the hall, disappearing into the girls' restroom.

"Hey!" Steve squeaked, his voice cracking three octaves. "That’s... that’s school property!"

Marc stepped forward, looming over Steve. The height difference was comical; Steve looked like a hobbit standing before a particularly moody Nazgûl. Marc leaned down, his face inches from Steve’s.

"Next time, watch where you're walking, Smith," Marc sneered, a small, mean smirk playing on his lips. "Or I’ll see if you can slide as far as that book did."

Zack chuckled from under his beret, and Abby gave a bored hair flip. The trio turned and walked away, Marc’s long strides carrying him with an effortless, predatory grace.

"He knows my name," Steve whispered, his knees shaking. "He’s going to kill me and use my skin as a trendy messenger bag!"

***

Three days later, the dynamic shifted in the way only high school hierarchies allow. Steve was at his locker, trying to scrub a "Kick Me" sign off his jacket, when a group of senior jests—led by the ever-obnoxious Vince—cornered him.

"Hey, Smith! I heard you like physics," Vince laughed, grabbing Steve by the collar. "Let’s see how gravity works when I drop you into the dumpster."

"Please, Vince! I have a delicate skeletal structure! I’m basically made of balsa wood and hope!"

Vince pulled back a fist, but it never landed. A large, pale hand caught his wrist mid-air.

Marc Aidan stood there, looking bored. He was holding a lukewarm cup of cafeteria coffee in his other hand.

"He’s annoying, but he’s my annoying," Marc said, his voice flat. "Walk away, Vince. Before I show you what twelve siblings worth of repressed rage feels like."

Vince looked at Marc’s height, then at the sheer "I don't care if I live or die" energy radiating off the emo kid. He spat on the floor but let Steve go. "Whatever. Freak."

As the jocks retreated, Steve adjusted his glasses, staring up at his savior in shock. "You... you saved me? But you kicked my book into the toilet area!"

Marc took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. "I was in a bad mood Tuesday. Today, I’m just bored. Besides, my dad says I need to make 'local connections' so people stop asking why we have so much money and so many kids."

"You have eleven siblings?" Steve asked, his curiosity momentarily outweighing his fear.

"Six older, five younger," Marc sighed, looking genuinely exhausted for a second. "My house is a zoo. Why do you think I’m always out here? Anyway, you’re Steve, right? You live in that house with the weird flagpole and the suspiciously loud garage?"

"That’s the one! My dad’s in the CIA. He’s... a lot."

Marc leaned against the locker, his impulsive streak flickering. "I’m bored, Smith. Show me this CIA house. Maybe your dad has better liquor than the stuff I swipe from my uncle’s cabinet."

Steve’s brain screamed danger, but his desire to be friends with the coolest, scariest kid in school won out. "Sure! We have a talking fish and—actually, let’s just start with the snacks."

***

The walk to the Smith household was awkward. Marc walked with a slight swagger, occasionally stopping to take a "medicinal" sip from his flask, while Steve rambled about Dungeons & Dragons.

"And then Toshi used a fireball spell, but he rolled a natural one, so he basically set his own eyebrows on fire," Steve laughed.

Marc looked at him sideways. "You’re a total loser, you know that?"

Steve’s face fell. "Oh. Yeah. I know."

"It’s fine," Marc added, surprisingly gentle for a split second. "I like losers. They’re less likely to try and compete with me for the spotlight. Just don't expect me to start wearing a cape or whatever."

They reached the front door. Steve pushed it open, shouting, "Mom! I’m home! I brought a friend! A real, tall, intimidating friend!"

Francine poked her head out from the kitchen, a spatula in hand. "Oh, hello! My goodness, you’re a tall drink of water, aren't you? And such interesting hair! Did you get caught in a highlighter factory?"

"It’s emo, Mrs. Smith," Marc said, stepping inside and immediately hitting his head on a low-hanging chandelier. "Ow. Dammit."

"Language!" Klaus yelled from his bowl on the coffee table. "But also, nice hair! It reminds me of a nightclub I used to frequent in Berlin called 'The Sadness Basement.'"

Marc froze, staring at the golden fish. He looked at Steve, then back at the fish. He unscrewed his flask, took a massive gulp, and shook his head. "Okay. Hallucinating fish. Great. This is exactly the kind of afternoon I needed."

Suddenly, the front door slammed open. Stan Smith marched in, wearing his tactical gear and carrying a suspicious-looking black briefcase. He stopped dead when he saw Marc.

"Steve! Why is there a giant, depressed skyscraper in our foyer?" Stan demanded, pointing a finger at Marc.

"Dad, this is Marc! He’s new in town. He’s... he’s rich!"

Stan’s eyes narrowed. He walked around Marc, sniffing the air. "He smells like gin and expensive hair dye. And he’s tall. Too tall. He could be a Russian spy in a very long trench coat. Are there two smaller spies inside those pants, boy?"

Marc didn't flinch. He looked Stan right in the eye, his blue gaze cold. "There are eleven siblings at my house, Mr. Smith. If I were a spy, I’d be asking for a transfer to a war zone just for the peace and quiet."

Stan paused, his expression softening into one of professional respect. "Large family, eh? Tactical nightmare. The logistics of a bathroom schedule alone... alright, he stays. But if I see him near my secret files, I’m authorized to use the 'enhanced interrogation' chair. It’s the one with the faulty wiring in the basement."

"Roger that," Marc said, unintentionally using Stan’s favorite phrase.

"I like this kid!" Stan shouted, heading for the kitchen. "Francine! Make the giant some tater tots! He looks like he hasn't eaten since the mid-nineties!"

Steve led Marc up to his room. As they passed the attic door, a strange, garbled voice echoed from above.

"Is that a new boy I hear? Is he handsome? Does he have a leather jacket I can borrow and never return?"

Marc stopped at the base of the attic stairs. "Who was that?"

"Oh, that’s just... my cousin, Roger," Steve lied quickly. "He has a very severe skin condition. And a lot of wigs. It’s best not to look him directly in the eye. Or the folds."

Marc leaned against the wall, looking at the stairs, then at Steve’s messy room filled with sci-fi posters. He felt a strange sense of belonging. Back home, he was just one of twelve, a face in a crowd of Aidan children. Here, in this house of CIA agents, talking fish, and hidden 'cousins,' he felt almost normal.

"Your family is freakish, Smith," Marc said, sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket before remembering he was indoors. "I think we’re going to get along just fine."

Steve beamed. "Really? You mean it?"

"Yeah," Marc said, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll tell the whole school you still sleep with a nightlight."

"I don't—"

"I saw the Teddy Ruxpin on your nightstand, Steve. Don't lie to a guy who’s been drinking since lunch."

Steve sat down at his desk, feeling a surge of confidence. He had a bodyguard. He had a cool friend. He had a guy who could probably buy him a beer without getting carded.

But as the sun began to set over Langley Falls, a shadow crossed the window. Something wasn't right. A faint, scratching sound came from the roof, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Marc noticed it first. He stood up, his playful demeanor vanishing, replaced by a sharp, impulsive alertness. He reached into his oversized hoodie pocket, but he didn't pull out his flask this time. He pulled out a heavy, brass-knuckle paperweight.

"Steve," Marc whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "Does your 'cousin' usually crawl on the outside of the house?"

Steve looked at the window. A pale, long-fingered hand was pressed against the glass. But it wasn't gray like Roger’s. It was white—whiter than Marc’s skin—and covered in something dark and dripping.

"That's not Roger," Steve breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The glass began to crack.

Marc stepped in front of Steve, his tall frame blocking the window. A grin spread across his face—not a kind one, but the grin of someone who had spent his whole life fighting for space in a house of twelve and was finally ready to fight something else.

"Well," Marc muttered, cracking his neck. "I guess the 'terror' part of the afternoon is starting. Hope you’re ready, four-eyes. This is going to get messy."